Frankenstein: Or, The Modern Prometheus

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HARVARD COLLEGE LIBRARY

From the Library of

JOHN LIVINGSTON LOWES

Professor of English 191 8-1930

Francis Lee Higginson Professor of English

Literature 1930-1945

FRANKENSTEIN

OR

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS

FRANKENSTEIN

OR

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS

Br
MRS. SHELLEY

LONDON

GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS

Broadway, Ludgate Hill

GLASGOW AND NEW YORK

1888

Kce<F<Pc

H-^yM/^

INTRODUCTION.

THE Publishers of the Standard Novels, in selecting
" Frankenstein " for one of their series, expressed
a wish that I should furnish them with some account
of the origin of the story. I am the more willing to
comply, because I shall thus give a general answer to
the question, so very frequently asked me— "How I,
then a young girl, came to think of, and to dilate upon,
so very hideous an idea?" It is true that I am very
averse to bringing myself forward in print; but as my
account will only appear as an appendage to a former
production, and as it will be confined to such topics as
have connection with my authorship alone, I can scarcely
accuse myself of a personal intrusion.

It is not singular that, as the daughter of two persons
of distinguished literary celebrity, I should very early in
life have thought of writing. As a child I scribbled;
and my favourite pastime, during the hours given me
for recreation, was to "write stories." Still I had a
dearer pleasure than this, which was the formation of
castles in the air— the indulging in waking dreams— the
following up trains of thought, which had for their
subject the formation of a succession of imaginary in-
cidents. My dreams were at once more fantastic and
agreeable than my writings. In the latter I was a close

VI INTRODUCTION.

imitator — ratber doing as others had done, than putting
down the suggestions of my own mind. What I wrote
was intended at least for one other eye — my childhood's
companion and friend ; but my dreams were all my own ;
I accounted for them to nobody ; they were my refuge
when annoyed—my dearest pleasure when free.'

I lived principally in the country as a girl, and passed
a considerable time in Scotland. I made occasional
visits to the more picturesque parts; but my habitual
residence was on the blank and dreary northern shores
of the Tay, near Dundee. Blank and dreary on retro-
spection I call them; they were not so to me then.
They were the eyry of freedom, and the pleasant region
where unheeded I could commune with the creatures
of my fancy. I wrote then— but in a most common-
place style. It was beneath the trees of the grounds
belonging to our house, or on die blesdc sides of the
woodless mountains near, that my true compositions,
the airy flights of my imagination, were bom and fostered.
I did not make myself the heroine of my tales. Life
appeared to me too commonplace an a6Eur as regarded
myself. I could not figure to mysdf that romantic woes
or wonderful events would ever be my lot ; but I was
not confined to my own identity, and I could people the
hours -with creations far more interesting to me at that
age than my own sensations.

After this my life became busier, and reality stood in
place of fiction. My husband, howcTer, was from the
first very anxious that I should prove myself worthy of
my parentage, and enrol myself on the page of fame.
He was for ever inciting me to obtain literary repuUtion,
which even on my own part I cared for then, though
since I have become infinitely tndifierent to it. At this

INTRODUCTION. Ttt

time he desired that I shoald -write, not so much witb
the idea that I could produce anything worthy <^ notice,
but that he might himsdf pidge how far I possessed the
promise of better things hereafter. Still I did nothing.
Trarelling, and the cares of a family, occupied my time ;
and study, in the way of reading, or improving my
ideas in communication with his far more cultivated
mind, was all of literary employment that engaged mj
attention.

In the summer of i8f6 we visited Switzerland, and
became the neighbours of Lord Byron. At first we spent
our pleasant hours on the lake, or wandering on its
shores; and Lord Byron, who was writing the third
canto of *' Childe Harold,*' was the only one among us
who put his thoughts upon paper. These, as be boought
them successively to us, clothed in all the light and bar-
mony of poetry, seemed to stamp as divine the g^ries of
heaven and earth, whose influences we partook with him.

But it proved a wet, ungenial summer, and incessant
rain often confined us for days to the house. Some
volumes of ghost stories, translated from die German
into French, fell into our hands. There was the History
of the Inconstant Lover, who, when he tbonght to cla^
the bride to whom he had pledged his vows, £ound him*
self in the arms of the pale ghost of her whom he bad
deserted. There was the tale of the sinful founder of his
race, whose miserable doom it was to bestow the kiss of
death on all the younger sons of his fated house, just
when they reached the age of promise. His gigantic,
shadowy form, clothed like the ghost in Hamlet, in com*
plete armour, but with the beaver up, was seen at mid*
night, by the moon's fitful beams, to advance slowly
along the gloomy avenue. The shape was lost beneath

Vm INTRODUCTION.

the shadow of the castle walls, but soon a gate swung
back, a step was heard, the door of the chamber opened,
and he advanced to the couch of the blooming youths,
cradled in liealthy sleep. Eternal sorrow sat upon his
face as he bent down and kissed the forehead of the boys,
who from that hour withered like flowers snapt upon the
stalk. I have not seen these stories since then ; but their
incidents are as fresh in my mind as if I had read them
yesterday.

" We will each write a ghosl story," said Lord Byron ;
and his proposition was acceded to. There were four of
us. The noble author began a tale, a fragment of which
he printed at the end of his poem of Mazeppa. Shelley,
more apt to embody ideas and sentiments in the radiance
of brilliant imagery, and in the music of the most melo-
dious verse that adorns our language, than to invent the
machinery of a story, commenced one founded on the
experiences of his early life. Poor Polidori had some
terrible idea about a skull -headed lady, who was so
punished for peeping through a keyhole— what to seel
forget — something very shocking and wrong of course ;
but when she was reduced to a worse condition than the
renowned Tom of Coventry, he did not know what to do
with her, and was obliged to despatch her to the tomb of
the dpulets, the only place for which she was fitted.
The illustrious poets also, annoyed by the platitude of
prose, speedily relinquished their uncongenial task.

I busied myself to think of a story , — a story to rival
those which had excited us to this task. One which
would speak to the mysterious fears of our nature, and
awaken thrilling horror — one to make the reader dread to
look round, to curdle the blood, and quicken the beatings
of the heart. If I did not accomplish these things, my

INTRODUCTION. IX

ghost story would be unworthy of its name. I thought
and pondered — vainly. I felt that blank incapability of
invention which is the greatest misery of authorship,
when dull Nothing replies to our anxious invocations.
Have you thought of a story 1 I was asked each morning,
and each morning I was forced to reply with a mortifying
negative.

Everything must have a beginning, to speak in San*
chean phrase; and that beginning must be linked to
something that went before. The Hindoos give the
world an elephant to support it, but they make the
elephant stand upon a tortoise. Invention, it must be
humbly admitted, does not consist in creating out of
Toid, but out of chaos; the materials must, in the first
place, be afforded : it can give form to dark, shapeless
substances, but cannot bring into being the substance
itself. In all matters of discovery and invention, even
of those that appertain to the imagination, we are con-
tinually reminded of the story of Columbus and his tgg.
Invention consists in the capacity of seizing on the
capabilities of a subject, and in the power of moulding
and fashioning ideas suggested to it.

Many and long were the conversations between Lord
Byron and Shelley, to which I was a devout but nearly
silent listener. During one of these, various philo-
sophical doctrines were discussed, and among others the
nature of the principle of life, and whether there was any
probability of its ever being discovered and communicated.
They talked of the experiments of Dr. Darwin (I speak
not of what the Doctor really did, or said that he did,
but, as more to my purpose, of what was then spoken of
as having been done by him), who preserved a piece of
vermicelli in a glass case, till by some extraordinary

X INTRODUCTION.

means it began to move with voluntary motion. Not
thus, after all, would life be given. Perhaps a corpse
would be reanimated; galvanism had given token of
such things : perhaps the component parts of a creature
might be manufactured, brought together, and endued
with vital warmth.

Night waned upon this talk ; and even the witching
hour had gone by, Ijefore we retired to rest. When I
placed my head on my pillow, I did not sleep, nor could
I be said to think. My imagination, unbidden, possessed
and guided me, gifting the successive images that arose in
my mind with a vividness far beyond the usual bounds of
reverie. I saw — with shut eyes, but acute mental vision
— I saw the pale student of unhallowed arts kneeling
beside the thing he had put together. I saw the hideous
phantasm of a njan stretched out, and then, on the
working of some powerful engine, show signs of life,
and stir with an uneasy, half vital motion. Frightful
must it be ; for supremely frightful would be the effect of
any human endeavour to mock the stupendous mechan-
ism of the Creator of the world. His success would
terrify the artist; he would rush away from his odious
handiwork, horror-stricken. He would hope that, left
to itself, the slight spark of life which he had communi-
cated would fade; that this thing, which had received
such imperfect animation, would subside into dead
matter ; and he might sleep in the belief that the silence
of the grave would quench for ever the transient existence
of the hideous corpse which he had looked upon as the
cradle of life. He sleeps ; but he is awakened; he opens
his eyes; behold the horrid thing stands at his bedside,
opening his curtains, and looking on him with yellow,
watery, but speculative eyes.

INTRODUCTION. XI

I opened mine in terror. The idea so possessed my
mind, that a thrill of fear ran through me, and I wished
to exchange the ghastly image of my fancy for the
realities around. I see them still ; the very room, the
dark parquet, the closed shutters, with the moonlight
struggling through, and the sense I had that the glassy
lake and white high Alps were beyond. I conld not so
easily get rid of my hideous phantom ; still it haunted
me. 1 must try to think of something else. I recurred
to my ghost story, — my tiresome unlucky ghost story 1
Oh ! if I could only contrive one which would frighten
my reader as I myself had been frightened that night !

Swift as light and as cheering was the idea that broke
in upon me. " I have found it ! What terrified me will
terrify others ; and I need only describe the spectre which
had haunted my midnight pillow." On the morrow
I announced that I had thought of a story. I began that
day with the words. It was on a dreary nigbt of November,
making only a transcript of the grim terrors of my
waking dream.

At first I thought but of a few pages — of a short tale ;
but Shelley urged me to develop the idea at greater
length. I certainly did not owe the suggestion of one
incident, nor scarcely of one train of feeling, to my
husband, and yet but for his incitement it would never
have taken the form in which it was presented to the
world. From this declaration I must except the preface.
As far as I can recollect, it was entirely written by him.

And now, once again, I bid my hideous progeny go
forth and prosper. I have an aflfection for it, for it was
the offspring of happy days, when death and grief were
but words, which found no true echo in my heart. Its
several pages speak of many a walk, many a drive, and

Xll INTRODUCTION.

many a conversation, when I was not alone; and my
companion was one whom, in this world, I shall never
see more. But this is for myself; my readers have
nothing to do with these associations.

I will add but one word as to the alterations I have
made. They are principally those of style. I have
changed no portion of the story, nor introduced any
new ideas or circumsunces. I have mended the lan-
guage where it was so bald as to interfere with the
interest of the narrative ; and these changes occur almost
exclusively in the beginning of the first volume. Through-
out they are entirely confined to such parts as are mere
adjuncts to the story, leaving the core and substance of
it untouched. M. W. S.

London, October 15, 1831.

PREFACE.

'TTHE event on which this fiction is founded has been
•*■ supposed, by Dr. Darwin and some of the physiolo-
gical writers of Germany, as not of impossible occurrence.
I shall not be supposed as according the remotest degree
of serious faith to such an imagination ; yet, in assuming
it as the basis of a work of fancy, I have not considered
myself as merely weaving a series of supernatural terrors.
The event on which the interest of the story depends is
exempt from the disadvantages of a mere tale of spectres
or enchantment. It was recommended by the novelty of
the situations which it develops ; and, however impossible
as a physical fact, affords a point of view to the imagina-
tion for the delineating of human passions more compre-
hensive and commanding than any which the ordinarj'
relations of existing events can yield.

I have thus endeavoured to preserve the truth of the
elementary principles of human nature, while I have not
scrupled to innovate upon their combinations. The Iliad,
the tragic poetry of Greece, — Shakspeare, in the Tempest
and Midsummer Night's Dreslm, — and most especially
Milton, in Paradise Lost, conform to this rule ; and the

XIV PREFACE.

most humble novelist, who seeks to confer or receive
amusement from his labours, may, without presumption,
apply to prose fiction a license, or rather a rule, from the
adoption of which so many exquisite combinations of
human feeling have resulted in the highest specimens of
poetry.

The circumstance on which my story rests was suggested
in casual conversation. It was commenced partly as a
saurce of amusement, and partly as an expedient for exer-
cising any untried resources of mind. Other motives
were mingled with these, as the work proceeded. I am
by no means indifferent to the manner in which whatever
moral tendencies exist in the sentiments or characters it
contains shall affect the reader ; yet my chief concern in
this respect has been limited to the avoiding the ener-
vatk^ effects of the novels of the present day, and to the
exhibition of the amiableness of domestic affection, and
the excellence of universal virtue. The opinions which
natorally spring from the character and situation of the
here are by no means to be conceived as existing always
in my own conviction ; nor is any inference justly to be
drawn from the following pages as prejudicing any philo-
sophical doctrine of whatever kind.

It is a subject also of additional interest to the author,
that this story was begun in the majestic region where the
scene is principally laid, and in society which cannot cease
to be regretted. I passed the summer of 1816 in the
environs of Geneva. The season was cold and rainy,
and in the evenings we crowded around a blazing wood

PREFACE. XV

fire, and occasionally amused ourselves with some German
stories of ghosts, which happened to fall into our hands.
These tales excited in us a playful desire of imitation.
Two other friends (a tale from the pen of one of whom
would be far more acceptable to the public than anything
I can ever hope to produce) and myself agreed to write
each a story, founded on some supernatural occurrence.

The weather, however, suddenly became serene ; and
my two friends left me on a journey among the Alps,
and lost, in the magnificent scenes which they present,
all memory of their ghostly visions. The following tale
is the only one which has been completed.

Marlow, September 1817.

-Sfe

FRANKENSTEIN;

OR,

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS.

LETTER I.

To Mrs, Saville, England.

St. Petersburg, Dec. ii, 17—.
'V'OU will rejoice to hear that no disaster has
■*• accompanied the commencement of an en-
terprise which you have regarded with such evil
forebodings. I arrived here yesterday; and my
first task is to assure my dear sister of my welfare,
and increasing confidence in the success of my
undertaking.

I am already far north of London : and as I walk
in the streets of Petersburg, I feel a cold northern
breeze play upon my cheeks, which braces my
nerves, and fills me with delight. Do you under-
stand this feeling? This breeze, which has travelled
from the regions towards which I am advancing.

1 8 FRANKENSTEIN; OR,

gives me a foretaste of those icy climes. Inspirited
by this wind of promise, my day-dreams become
more fervent and vivid. I try in vain to be per-
suaded that the pole is the seat of frost and desola-
tion ; it ever presents itself to my imagination as
the region of beauty and delight There, Margaret,
the sun is for ever visible ; its broad disk just skirting
the horizon, and diffusing a perpetual splendour.
There — for with your leave, my sister, I will put
some trust in preceding navigators — there snow
and frost are banished ; and, sailing over a calm
sea, we may be wafted to a land surpassing in
wonders and in beauty every region hitherto dis-
covered on the habitable globe. Its productions
and features may be without example, as the
phenomena of the heavenly bodies undoubtedly
are in those undiscovered solitudes. What may
not be expected in a country of eternal light ? I
may there discover the wondrous power which
attracts the needle ; and may regulate a thousand
celestial observations, that require only this voyage
to render their seeming eccentricities consistent for
ever. I shall satiate my ardent curiosity with the
sight of a part of the world never before visited,
and may tread a land never before imprinted by die
foot of man. These are my enticements, and they
are sufficient to conquer all fear of danger or death,
and to induce me to commence this laborious
voyage with the joy a child feels when he embarks
in a little boat, with his holiday mates, on an

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 1 9

expedition of discovery up his native river. But,
supposing all tiiese conjectures to be false, you
cannot contest the inestimable benefit which I shall
confer on all mankind to the last generation, by dis-
covering a passage near the pole to those countries,,
to reach which at present so many months are
requisite ; or by ascertaining the secret of the
magnet, which, if at all possible, can only be
affected by an undertaking such as mine.

These reflections have dispelled the agitation
with which I began my letter, and I feel my heart
glow with an enthusiasm which elevates me to
heaven ; for nothing contributes so much to tran-
quillise the mind as a steady purpose, — a point on
which the soul may fix its intellectual eye. This
expediticxi has been the favourite dream of my
early years. I have read with ardour the accounts
of the various voyages which have been made in
die prospect of arriving at the North Pacific Ocean
through the seas which surround the pole. You
may remember, that a history of all the vo5'ages
made for purposes of discovery composed the whole
of our good uncle Thomas's library. My education
was neglected, yet I was passionately fond of read-
ing. These volumes were my study day and night,
and my familiarity with them increased that regret
which I had felt, as a child, on learning that my
father's dying injunction had forbidden my uncle
to allow^ me to embark in a seafaring life.

These visions faded when I perused, for the first

20 FRANKENSTEIN; OR,

time, those poets whose effusions entranced my soul,
and lifted it to heaven. I also became a poet, and
for one year lived in a Paradise of my own creation ;
I imagined that I also might obtain a niche in the
temple where the names of Homer and Shakspeare
are consecrated. You are well acquainted with
my failure, and how heavily I bore the disap-
pointment. But just at that time I inherited the
fortune of my cousin, and my thoughts were
turned into the channel of their earlier bent.

Six years have passed since I resolved on my
present undertaking. I can, even now, remember
the hour from which I dedicated myself to this
great enterprise. I commenced by inuring my
body to hardship. I accompanied the whale-
fishers on several expeditions to the North Sea ;
I voluntarily endured cold, famine, thirst, and
want of sleep ; I often worked harder than the
common sailors during the day, and devoted my
nights to the study of mathematics, the theory of
medicine, and those branches of physical science
from which a naval adventurer might derive the
greatest practical advantage. Twice I actually
hired myself as an under-mate in a Greenland
whaler, and acquitted myself to admiration. I
must own I felt a little proud, when my captain
offered me the second dignity in the vessel, and
entreated me to remain with the greatest earnest-
ness ; so valuable did he consider my services.

And now, dear Margaret, do I not deserve to

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 21

accomplish some great purpose? My life might
have been passed in ease and luxury ; but I pre-
ferred glory to every enticement that wealth placed
in my path. Oh, that some encouraging voice
would answer in the affirmative? My courage
and my resolution is firm ; but my hopes fluc-
tuate, and my spirits are often depressed. I am
about to proceed on a long and difficult voyage,
the emergencies of which will demand all my
fortitude; I am required not only to raise the
spirits of others, but sometimes to sustain my
own, when theirs are failing.

This is the most favourable period for travelling
in Russia. They fly quickly over the snow in their
sledges ; the motion is pleasant, and, in my opinion,
far more agreeable than that of an English stage-
coach. The cold is not excessive, if you are
wrapped in furs, — a dress which I have already
adopted ; for there is a great difference between
walking the deck and remaining seated motionless
for hours, when no exercise prevents the blood
from actually freezing in your veins. I have no
ambition to lose my life on the post-road between
St. Petersburg and Archangel.

I shall depart for the latter town in a fortnight
or three weeks ; and my intention is to hire a ship
there, which can easily be done by paying the
insurance for the owner, and to engage as many
sailors as I think necessary among those who are
accustomed to the whale-fishing. I do not intend

22 FRANKENSTEIN ; OR,

to sail until the month of June ; and when shall I
return ? Ah, dear sister, how can I answer this
question ? If I succeed, many, many months^ per-
haps years, will pass before you and I may meeL
If I fail, you will see me again soon, or never.

Farewell, my dear, excellent Margaret. Heaven
shower down blessings on you, and save me, that I
may again and again testify my gratitude for all your
love and kindness. — Your affectionate brother,

R. Walton.

LETTER n.
To Mrs, Saville, England.

Archangel, 28M Marck, 17 — .

How slowly the time passes here, encompassed
as I am by frost and snow ; yet a second step is
taken towards my enterprise. I have hired a vessel,
and am occupied in collecting my sailors ; those
whom I have already engaged appear to be men
on whom I can depend, and are certainly possessed
of dauntless courage.

But I have one want which I have never yet
been able to satisfy ; and the absence of the object
of which I now feel as a most severe evil. I have
no friend, Margaret : when I am glowing with the
enthusiasm of success, there will be none to parti-
cipate my joy ; if I am assailed by disappointment,
no one will endeavour to sustain me in dejection.

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 23

I shall commit my thoughts to paper, it is true ;
but that is a poor medium for the communication
c^ feeling. I desire the company of a man who
could sympathise with me ; whose eyes would
reply to mine. You may deem me romantic, my
dojuf sister, but I bitterly feel the want of a friend.
I have no one near me, gentle yet courageous,
possessed of a cultivated as well as of a capacious
mind, whose tastes are like my own, to approve
or amend my plans. How would such a friend
repair the faults of your poor brother J I am too
ardent in execution, and too impatient of difficulties.
But it is a still greater evil to me that I am self-
educated : for the first fourteen years of my life
I ran wild on a common, and read nothing but our
uncle Thomas's books of voyages. At that age I
became acquainted with the celebrated poets of our
own country ; but it was only when it had ceased
to be in my power to derive its most important
benefits from such a conviction, that I perceived
the necessity of becoming acquainted with more
languages than that of my native country. Now I
am twenty-eight, and am in reality more illiterate
than many schoolboys of fifteen. It is true that I
have thought more, and that my day-dreams are
more extended and magnificent ; but they want
(as the painters call it) keeping ; and I greatly need
a friend who would have sense enough not to
despise me as romantic, and affection enough for
me to endeavour to regulate my mind.

24 FRANKENSTEIN; OR,

Well, these are useless complaints;- I shall
certainly find no friend on the wide ocean, nor even
here in Archangel, among merchants and seamen.
Yet some feelings, unallied to the dross of human
nature, beat even in these rugged bosoms. My
lieutenant, for instance, is a man of wonderful
courage and enterprise; he is madly desirous of
glory : or rather, to word my phrase more char-
acteristically, of advancement in his profession.
He is an Englishman, and in the midst of national
and professional prejudices, unsoftened by culti-
vation, retains some of the noblest endowments of
humanity. I first became acquainted with him
on board a whale vessel : finding that he was
unemployed in this city, I easily engaged him to
assist in my enterprise.

The master is a person of an excellent disposition,
and is remarkable in the ship for his gentleness and
the mildness of his discipline. This circumstance,
added to his well-known integrity and dauntless
courage, made me very desirous to engage him.
A youth passed in solitude, my best years spent
under your gentle and feminine fosterage, has so
refined the groundwork of my character, that I
cannot overcome an intense distaste to the usual
brutality exercised on board ship : I have never
believed it to be necessary ; and when I heard of a
mariner equally noted for his kindliness of heart,
and the respect and obedience paid to him by his
crew, I felt myself peculiarly fortunate in being able

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 2$

to secure his services. I heard of him first in
rather a romantic manner, from a lady who owes
to him the happiness of her life. This, briefly, is
his story. Some years ago, he loved a young
Russian lady, of moderate fortune; and having
amassed a considerable sum in prize-money, the
father of the girl consented to the match. He saw
his mistress once before the destined ceremony ;
but she was bathed in tears, and, throwing herself
at his feet, entreated him to spare her, confessing
at the same time that she loved another, but that
he was poor, and that her father would never con-
sent to the union. My generous friend reassured
the suppliant, and on being informed of the name
of her lover, instantly abandoned his pursuit. He
had already bought a farm with his money, on
which he had designed to pass the remainder of
his life ; but he bestowed the whole on his rival,
together with the remains of his prize-money to
purchase stock, and then himself solicited the young
woman's father to consent to her marriage with
her lover. But the old man decidedly refused,
thinking himself bound in honour to my friend ;
who, when he found the father inexorable, quitted
his country, nor returned until he heard that his
former mistress was married according to her
inclinations. **What a noble fellow I "you will
exclaim. He is so ; but then he is wholly un-
educated : he is as silent as a Turk, and a kind of
ignorant carelessness attends him^ which, while it

26 FRANKENSTEIN; OR,

renders his conduct the more astonishing, detracts
from the interest and sympathy which otherwise
he would command.

Yet do not suppose, because I complain a little,
or because I can conceive a consolation for my toils
which I may never know, that I am wavering in
my resolutions. Those are as fixed as fate ; and
my voyage is only now delayed until the weather
shall permit ray embarkation. The winter has
been dreadfully severe ; but the spring promises
well, and it is considered as a remarkably early
season ; so tliat peiiiaps I may sail sooner than I
expected. I shall do notliing rashly : you know
me sufficiently to confide in my prudence and
considerateness, whenever the safety of others is
committed to my care.

I cannot describe to you my sensations on the
near prospect of my undertaking. It is impossible
to communicate to you a conception of the trem-
bling sensation, half pleasurable and half fearful,
with which I am preparing to depart. I am going
to unexplored regions, to " the land of mist and
snow ; " but i shall kill no albatross, therefore do
not be alarmed for my safety, or if I should come
back to you as worn and woeful as the " Ancient
Mariner " ? You will smile at my allusion ; but I
will dtsdose a secret. I have often attributed my
attachment to, my passionate enthusiasm for, the
dangerous mysteries of ocean, to that production
of the most imaginative of modem poets. There

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 2^

is something at work in my soul, which I do not
understand. I am practically industrious — pains-
taking ;— a workman to execute with perseverance
and labour ; — but besides this, there is a love for
the marvellous, a belief in the marvellous, inter-
twined in all my projects, which hurries me out of
the common pathways of men, even to the wild
sea and unvisited regions I am about to explore.

But to return to dearer considerations. Shall I
meet you again, after having traversed immense
seas, and returned by the most southern cape of
Africa or America ? I dare not expect such success,
yet I cannot bear to look on the reverse of the
picture. Gxitinue for the present to write to me
by every opportunity : I may receive your letters
on some occasions when I need them most to
support my spirits. I love you very tenderly. Re-
member me with affection, should you never hear
from me again.— Your affectionate brother,

Robert Walton.

LETTER III.

To Mrs, SavilUy England.

July 7. 17—.

My dear Sister, — I write a few lines in haste,
to say that I am safe, and well advanced on my
voyage. This letter will reach England by a
merchantman now on its homeward voyage from

28 FRANKENSTEIN; OR,

Archangel ; more fortunate than I, who may not
see my native land, perhaps, for many years. I am,
however, in good spirits : my men are bold, and
apparently firm of purpose ; nor do the floating
sheets of ice that continually pass us, indicating
the dangers of the region towards which we are
advancing, appear to dismay them. We have
already reached a very high latitude ; but it is the
height of summer, and although not so warm as
in England, the southern gales, which blow us
speedily towards those shores which I so ardently
desire to attain, breathe a degree of renovating
warmth which I had not expected.

No incidents have hitherto befallen us that would
make a figure in a letter. One or two stiff gales,
and the springing of a leak, are accidents which
experienced navigators scarcely remember to record ;
and I shall be well content if nothing worse happen,
to us during our voyage.

Adieu, my dear Margaret. Be assured, that for
my own sake as well as yours, I will not rashly
encounter danger. I will be cool, persevering,
and prudent.

But success shall crown my endeavours. Where-
fore not ? Thus far I have gone, tracing a secure
way over the pathless seas : the very stars them-
selves being \^atnesses and testimonies of my
triumph. Why not still proceed over the untamed
yet obedient element ? What can stop the deter-
mined heart and resolved will of man ?

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 29

My swelling heart involuntarily pours itself out
thus. But I must finish. Heaven bless my be-
loved sister I R. W.

LETl'ER IV.

To Mrs. Saville, England.

August 5, 17—.

So strange an accident has happened to us that
I cannot forbear recording it, although it is very
probable that you will see me before these papers
can come into your possession.

Last Monday (July 31st) we were nearly sur-
rounded by ice, which closed in the ship on all
sides, scarcely leaving her the sea-room in which
she floated. Our situation was somewhat danger-
ous, especially as we were compassed round by a
very thick fog. We accordingly lay to, hoping
that some change would take place in the atmos-
phere and weather.

About two o'clock the mist cleared away, and
we beheld, stretched out in every direction, vast
and irregular plains of ice, which seemed to have
no end. Some of my comrades groaned, and my
own mind began to grow watchful with anxious
thoughts, when a strange sight suddenly attracted
our attention, and diverted our solicitude from our
own situation. We perceived a low carriage, fixed
on a sledge, and drawn by dogs, pass on towards

30 FRANKENSTEIN; OR,

the north, at the distance of half a mik : a being
which had the shape of a man, but apparently of
gigantic stature, sat in the sledge, and guided
the dogs. We watched the rapid progress of the
traveller with our telescopes, until he was lost
among the distant inequalities of the ice.

This appearance excited our unqualified wonder.
We were, as we believed, many hundred miles
from any land ; but this apparition seemed to
denote that it was not, in reality, so distant as we
had supposed. Shut in, however, by ice, it was
impossible to follow his track, which we had ob-
served with the greatest attention.

About two hours after this occurrence, we heard
the ground sea; and before night the ice broke,
and freed our ship. We, however, lay to until
the morning, fearing to encounter in the dark
those large loose masses which float about after
the breaking up of the ice. I profited of this time
to rest for a few hours.

In the morning, however, as soon as it was light,
I went upon deck, and found all the sailors busy
on one side of the vessel, apparently talking to
some one in the sea. It was, in fact, a sledge,
like that we had seen before, which had drifted
towards us in the night, on a large fragment of
ice. Only one dog remained alive, but there was
a human being within it, whom the sailors were
persuading to enter the vessel. He was not as
the other traveller seemed to be, a savage inhabi-

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 3 1

tant of some undiscovared island, but an European,
When I appeared on deck, the master said, " Here
is our captain, and he will not allow you to perish
on the open sea."

On perceiving me, the stranger addressed me in
Enghsh, although witli a foreign accent. " Before I
come on board your vessel," said he, " will you have
the kindness to inform me whither you are bound ? "

You may conceive my astonishment on hearing
such a question addressed to me from a man on
the brink of destruction, and to whom I should
have supposed that my vessel would have been a
resource which he would not have exchanged for
the most precious wealth the earth can afford. I
replied, however, that we were on a voyage of dis-
covery towards the northern pole.

Upon hearing this he appeared satisfied, and con-
sented to come on board. Good God I Margaret,
if you had seen the man who thus capitulated for
his safety, your surprise would have been boundless.
His limbs were nearly fi-ozen, and his body dread-
fully emaciated by fatigue and suffering. I never
saw a man in so wretched a condition. We
attempted to carry him into the cabin; but as
soon as he had quitted the fresh air, he fainted.
We accordingly brought him back to the deck,
and restored him to animation by rubbing him
with brandy, and forcing him to swallow a small
quantity. As soon as he showed signs of life we
wrapped him up in blankets, and placed him near

32 FRANKENSTEIN; OR,

the chimney of the kitchen stove. By slow degrees
he recovered, and ate a little soup, which restored
him wonderfully.

Two days passed in this manner before he was
able to speak ; and I often feared that his sufferings
had deprived him of understanding. When he
had in some measure recovered, I removed him
to my own cabin, and attended on him as much
as my duty would permit. I never saw a more
interesting creature : his eyes have generally an
expression of wildness, and even madness ; but
there are moments when, if any one performs an
act of kindness towards him, or does him any
the most trifling service, his whole countenance is
lighted up, as it were, with a beam of benevolence
and sweetness that I never saw equalled. But he
is generally melancholy and despairing ; and some-
times he gnashes his teeth, as if impatient of the
weight of woes that oppresses him.

When my guest was a little recovered, I had
great trouble to keep off the men, who wished to
ask him a thousand questions ; but I would not
allow him to be tormented by their idle curiosity,
in a state of body and mind whose restoration
evidently depended upon entire repose. Once,
however, the lieutenant asked, Why he had come
so far upon the ice in so strange a vehicle ?

His countenance instantly assumed an aspect of
the deepest gloom ; and he replied, " To seek one
who fled from me.'*

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 33

" And did the man whom you pursued travel in
the same fashion ? '*

''Yes."

** Tlien I fancy we have seen him ; for the day
before we picked you up, we saw some dogs draw-
ing a sledge, with a man in it, across the ice."

This aroused the stranger's attention; and he
asked a multitude of questions concerning the route
which the daemon, as he called him, had pursued.
Soon after, when he was alone with me, he said
— "I have, doubtless, excited your curiosity, as
well as that of these good people ; but you are too
considerate to make inquiries."

*' Certainly ; it would indeed be very impertinent
and inhuman in me to trouble you with any in-
quisitiveness of mine."

" And yet you rescued me from a strange and
perilous situation ; you have benevolently restored
me to life."

Soon after this he inquired if I thought that the
breaking up of the ice had destroyed theother
sledge? I replied, that I could not answer with
any degree of certainty ;. for the ice had not broken
until near midnight, and the traveller might have
arrived at a place of safety before that time ; but
of this I could not judge.

From this time a new spirit of life animated the
decaying frame of the stranger. He manifested
the greatest eagerness to be upon deck, to watch
for the sledge which had before appeared ; but I

(31) *

34 FRANKENSTEIN; OR,

have persuaded him to remain iA the cabin, for he
is far too weak to sustain the rawness of the atmos-
vphere. I have promised that some one should
watch for him, and give him instant notice if any
new object should appear in sight.

Such is my journal of what relates to this strange
occurrence up to the present day. The stranger
has gradually improved in health, but is very silent,
and appears uneasy when any one except myself
enters his cabin. Yet his manners are so conciliat-
ing and gentle, that the sailors are all interested in
him, although they have had very little coramuni-
<:ation with him. For my own part, I begin to love
him as a brother ; and his constant and deep grief
fills me with sympathy and compassion. He must
have been a noble creature in his better days, being
even now in wreck so attractive and amiable.

I said in one of my letters, my dear l^rgaret,
that I should find no friend on the ^4de ocean ;
yet I have found a man who, before his spirit had
been broken by misery, I should have been happy
to have possessed as the brother of my heart.

I shall continue my journal concerning the
su-anger at intervals, should I hav« any fresh in-
cidents to record.

August 13, 17 — .

My affection for my guest increases every day.
He excites at once my admiration and my pity to an
astonishing degree. How can I see so noWe a crea-
ture destroyed by misery, without feelirg the most

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 35

poignant grief? He is so gentle, yet so wise ; his
mind is so cultivated ; and when he speaks, although
his words are culled with the choicest art, yet they
flow with rapidity and unparalleled doquence.

He is now much recovered from his illness, and
is continually on the deck, apparently watdiing for
the sledge that preceded his own. Yet, although
unhappy, he is not so utterly occupied by his own
misery, but that he interests himself deeply m the
projects of others. He has frequently conversed
with me on mine, which I have communicated to
him without disguise. He entered attentively imo
all my arguments in favour of my eventual success,
and into every minute detail of the measures I had
taken to secure it. I was easily led by the sympathy
which he evinced, to use the language of my heart ;
to give utterance to the burning ardour of my soul ;
and to say, with all the fervour that warmed me,
how glacQy I would sacrifice my fortune, my exist-
ence, my every hope, to the furtherance of my
enterprise. One man's life or death were but a
small price to pay for the acquirement of the
knowledge which I sought; for the dominion I
should acquire and transmit over the elemental foes
of our race. As I spoke, a dark gloom spread over
my listener's-countenance. At first I perceived that
he tried to suppress his emotion ; he placed his
hands before his eyes ; and my voice quivered and
failed me, as I beheld tears trickle fast firom between
his fingers, — z groan burst from his heaving breast

36 FRANKENSTEIN; OR,

I paused ; — at length he spoke, in broken accents :
— " Unhappy man I Do you share my madness?
Have you drank also of the intoxicating draught ?
Hear me, — let me reveal my tale, and you will
dash the cup from your lips I "

Such words, you may imagine, strongly excited
my curiosity ; but the paroxysm of grief that had
seized the stranger overcame his weakened powers,
and many hours of repose and tranquil conversation
were necessary to restore his composure.

Having conquered the violence of his feelings, he
appeared to despise himself for being the slave of
passion ; and, quelling the dark tyranny of despair,
he led me again to converse concerning myself
personally. He asked me the history of my earlier
years. The tale was quickly told : but it awakened
various trains of reflection. I spoke of my desire of
finding a friend — of my thirst for a more intimate
sympathy with a fellow mind than had ever fallen
to my lot; and expressed my conviction that a
man could boast of little happiness, who did not
enjoy this blessing.

** I agree with you," replied the stranger ; " we
are unfashioned creatures, but half made up, if one
wiser, better, dearer than ourselves— such a friend
ought to be — do not lend his aid to perfectionate
our weak and faulty natures. I once had a friend,
the most noble of human creatures, and am entitled,
therefore, to judge respecting friendship. You have
hope, and the world before you, and have no cause

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 37

for despair. But I — I have lost everything, and
cannot begin life anew."

As he said this, his countenance became expres-
sive of a calm settled grief, that touched me to the
heart. But he was silent, and presently retired to
his cabin.

Even broken in spirit as he is, no one can feel more
deeply than he does the beauties of nature. The
starry sky, the sea, and every sight afforded by these
wonderful regions, seems still to have the power
of elevating his soul from earth. Such a man has
a double existence : he may suffer misery, and be
overwhelmed by disappointments; yet, when he
has retired into himself, he will be like a celestial
spirit, that has a halo around him, within whose
circle no grief or folly ventures.

Will you smile at the enthusiasm I express con-
cerning this divine wanderer ? You would not, if
you saw him. You have been tutored and refined
by books and retirement from the world, and you
are, therefore, somewhat fastidious ; but this only
renders you the more fit to appreciate the extra-
ordinary merits of this wonderful man. Sometimes
I have endeavoured to discover what quality it is
which he possesses, that elevates him so immeasur-
ably above any other person I ever knew. I believe
it to be an intuitive discernment ; a quick but
never-failing power of judgment; a penetration
into the causes of things, unequalled for clearness
and precision ; add to this a facility of expression.

38 FRANKEKSTEIN ; OR,

and a voice whose varied intonations are soul-
subduing music.

August 19, 17 — .

Yesterday the stranger said to me, ** You may
easily perceive, Captain Walton, that I have suffered
great and unparalleled misfortunes. I had deter-
mined, at one time, that the memory of these evils
should die with me ; but you have won me to alter
my determination. You seek for knowledge and
wisdom, as I once did ; and I ardently hope that
the gratificati<Mi of your wishes may not be a serpent
to sting you, as mine has been. I do not know
that the relation of my disasters will be useful to
you ; yet, when I reflea that you are pursuing the
same course, exposing yourself to the same dangers
which have rendered me what I am, I imagine that
you may deduce an apt moral from my tale ; one
that may direct you if you succeed in your under-
taking, and console you in case of failure. Prepare
to hear of occurrences which are usually deemed
marvellous. Were we among the tamer scenes of
nature, I might fear to encounter your unbeKef,
perhaps your ridicule ; but many things will appear
possible in these wild and mysterious regions, which
would provoke the laughter of those unacquainted
with the ever- varied powers of nature : — nor can
I doubt but that my tale conveys in its series
internal evidence of the truth of the events of
which it is composed."

You may easily imagine that I was much grati-

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 39

fied by the offered commDnication ; yet I could
not endure that he should renew his grief by a
recital of his misfortunes. I felt the greatest
eao;emess to hear the promised narrative, partly
from curiosity, and partly from a strong deare to
ameliorate his fate, if.it were in my power. 1
expressed these feelings in my answer.

" I thank you," he replied, ** for your sympathy^
but it is useless ; my fate is nearly fulfilled. I wait
but for one event, and then I shsdl repose in peace»
I understand your feeling," continued he, perceiving
that I wished to interrupt him ; ** but you are mis-
taken, my friend, if thus you will allow me to name
you ; nothing can alter my destiny : listen to my
history, and you will perceive how irrevocably it
is determined."

He then told me, that he would commence his
narrative the next day when I should be at leisure.
Tliis promise drew from me the warmest thanks.
1 have resolved every night, when I am not impera-
tively occupied by my duties, to record, as nearly
as possible in his own words, what he has rdated
during the day. If I should be engaged, I will at
least make notes. This manuscript will doubtless
afford you the greatest pleasure : but to me, who
know him, and who hear it from his own lips,,
with what interest and sympathy shall I read it ia
some future day I Even now, as I commence my
task, his full-toned voice swells in my ears; his
lustrous ej-es dwell on me with all their melancholy

40 FRANKENSTEIN ; OR,

sweetness ; I see his thin hand raised in animation,
while the lineaments of his face are irradiated by
the soul within. Strange and harrowing must be
his story ; frightful the storm which embraced the
gallant vessel on its course, and wrecked it — thus I

CHAPTER I.

I AM by birth a Genevese ; and my family is one
of the most distinguished of that republic. My
ancestors had been for many years counsellors and
syndics; and my father had filled several public
situations with honour and reputation. He was
respected by all who knew him, for his integrity
and indefatigable attention to public business.
He passed his younger days perpetually occupied
by the affairs of his country ; a variety of cir-
cumstances had prevented his marrying early, nor
was it until the decline of life that he became a
husband and the father of a family.

As the circumstances of his marriage illustrate
his character, I cannot refrain from relating them.
One of his most intimate friends was a merchant,
who, from a flourishing state, fell, through nume-
rous mischahces, into poverty. This man, whose
name was Beaufort, was of a proud and unbending
disposition, and could not bear to live in poverty
and oblivion in the same country where he had
formerly been distinguished for his rank and magni-

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 4 1

ficence. Having paid his debts, therefore, in the
most honourable manner, he retreated with his
daughter to the town of Lucerne, where he lived
unknown and in wretchedness. My father loved
Beaufort with the truest friendship, and was deeply-
grieved by his retreat in these unfortunate circum-
stances. He bitterly deplored the false pride which
led his friend to a conduct so little worthy of the
. affection that united them. He lost no time in
endeavouring to seek him out, with the hope of
persuading him to begin the world again through
his credit and assistance.

Beaufort had taken effectual measures to conceal
himself; and it was ten months before my father
discovered his abode. Overjoyed at this discovery,
he hastened to the house, which was situated in a
mean street, near the Reuss. But when he entered,
misery and despair alone welcomed him. Beaufort
had saved but a very small sum of money from the
wreck of his fortunes ; but it was sufficient to pro-
vide him with sustenance for some months, and in
the meantime he hoped to procure some respectable
employment in a merchant's house. The interval
was, consequently, spent in inaction ; his grief only
became more deep and rankling, when he had
leisure for reflection ; and at length it took so fast
hold of his mind, that at the end of three months he
lay on a bed of sickness, incapable of any exertion.
His daughter attended him with the greatest
tenderness ; but she saw with despair that their

B2

42 FRANKENSTEIN; OR,

little fund was rapidly decreasing, and that there
was no other prospect of support. But Caroline
Beaufort possessed a mind of an uncommon mould ;
and her courage rose to support her in her adver-
sity. She procured plain work ; she plaited straw ;
and by various means contrived to earn a pittance
scarcely sufficient to support life.

Several months passed in this manner. Her
father grew worse; her lime was more entirely
occupied in attending him ; her means of subsist-
ence decreased ; and in the tenth month her father
died in her arms, leaving her an orphan and a
beggar. This last blow overcame her; and she
knelt by Beaufort's coffin, weeping bitterly, when
my father entered the chamber. He came like a
protecting spirit to the poor girl, who committed
herself to his care ; and after the interment of his
friend, he conducted her to Geneva, and placed
her under the protection of a relation. Two years
after this event Caroline became his wife.

There was a considerable difference between the
ages of my parents, but this circumstance seemed
to unite them only closer in bonds of devoted
affection. There was a sense of justice in my
father's upright mind, which rendered it necessary
that he should approve highly to love strongly.
Perhaps during former years he had suffered from
the late-discovered unworthiness of one beloved,
and so was disposed to set a greater value on
tried wonh. There was a show of gratitude and

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 43

-worship in his attachment to my mother, differing
-wholly from the doating fondness of age, for it
was inspired by reverence for her virtues^ and a
■desire to be the means of, in some degree, recom-
pensing her for the sorrows she had endured, but
which gave inexpressible grace to his behaviour to
her. Everything was made to yield to her wishes
and her convenience. He strove to shelter her, as
^ fair exotic is sheltered by the gardener, from every
rougher wind, and to surround her with all that
•could tend to excite pleasurable emotion in her soft
and benevolent mind. Her health, and even the
tranquillity of her hitherto constant spirit, had been
shaken by what she had gone through. During
the two years that had elapsed previous to their
marriage my father had gradually relinquished all
his public functions ; and immediately after their
^uiion they sought the pleasant climate of Italy, and
the change of scene and interest attendant on a
tour through that land of wonders, as a restorative
for her weakened frame.

From Italy they visited Germany and France.
I, their eldest child, was bom at Naples, and as an
infant accompanied them in their rambles. I re-
mained for several years their only child. Much
as they were attached to each other, they seemed
to draw inexhaustible stores of affection from a
very mine of love to bestow them upon me. My
mother's tender caresses, and my father's smile of
benevolent pleasure while regarding me, are my

44 FRANKENSTEIN; OR,

first recollections. I was their plaything and their
idol, and something better — their child, the inno-
cent and helpless creature bestowed on them by
Heaven, whom to bring up to good, and whose
future lot it was in their hands to direct to happiness
or misery, according as they fulfilled their duties
towards me. With this deep consciousness of what
they owed towards the being to which they had
given life, added to the active spirit of tenderness
that animated both, it may be imagined that while
during every hour of my infant life I received a
lesson of patience, of charity, and of self-control, I
was so guided by a silken cord, that all seemed but
one train of enjoyment to me.

For a long time I was their only care. My
mother had much desired to have a daughter, but
I continued their single offspring. When I was
about five years old, while making an excursion
beyond the frontiers of Italy, they passed a week
on the shores of the Lake of Como. Their bene-
volent disposition often made them enter the
cottages of the poor. This, to my mother, was
more than a duty ; it was a necessit}', a passion, —
remembering what she had sufiered, and how she
had been relieved, — for her to act in her turn the
guardian angel to the afflicted. During one of
'.heir walks a poor cot in the foldings of a vale
attracted their notice, as being singularly dis-
consolate, while the number of half-clothed chil-
dren gathered about it, spoke of penury in its worst

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 45

shape. One day, when my father had gone by
himself to Milan, my mother, accompanied by me,
visited this abode. She found a peasant and his
wife, hard-working, bent down by care and labour,
distributing a scanty meal to five hungry babes.
Among these there was one which attracted my
mother far above all the rest. She appeared of a
different stock. The four others were dark-eyed,
hardy little vagrants ; this child was thin, and very
fair. Her hair was the brightest living gold, and,
despite the poverty of her clothing, seemed to set
a crown of distinction on her head. Her brow was
clear and ample, her blue eyes cloudless, and her
lips and the moulding of her face so expressive of
sensibility and sweetness, that none could behold
her without looking on her as of a distinct species,
a being heaven-sent, and bearing a celestial stamp
in all her features.

The peasant woman, perceiving that my mother
fixed eyes of wonder and admiration on this lovely
girl, eagerly communicated her history. She was
not her child, but the daughter of a Milanese noble-
man. Her mother was a German, and had died on
giving her birth. The infant had been placed with
these good people to nurse : they were better off
then. They had not been long married, and their
eldest child was but just born. The father of their
charge was one of those Italians nursed in the
memory of the antique glory of Italy, — one among
the schiavi ognor frementiy who exerted himself to

46 FRANKENSTEIN; OR,

obtain liie liberty of his country. He became the
victim of its weakness. Whether he had died, or
still lingered in the dungeons of Austria, was not
known. His property ^as confiscated, his child
became an orphan and a beggar. She continued
wnh her foster parents, and bloomed in their rude
abode, fairer than a garden rose among dark-leaved
brambles.

When my father returned from Milan, he found
plapng with me in the hall of our villa, a child
feirer than pictured cheruh — a creature who seemed
to shed radiance from her looks, and whose form
and nfiotions were lighter than the chamois of the
hills. The apparition was soon explained. With
his permission my mother prevailed on her rustic
guardians to yield their charge to her. They were
fond of the sweet orphan. Her presence had
seemed a blessing to them ; but it would be un-
fair to her to keep her in poverty and want, when
Providence afforded her such powerful protection.
They consulted their village priest, and the result
was, that Elizabeth Lavenza became the inmate
of my parents*, house — ^my more than sister — the
beautiful and adored companion of all my occupa-
tions and my pleasures.

Every one loved Elizabeth. The passionate and
dmost reverential attadiment with which all re-
garded her became, while I shared it, my pride and
my delight. On the evening previous to her being
brought to my home, my mother had said playfully.

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 47

— "I have a pretty present for my Victor -
morrow he shall have it." And when, on the
morrow, she presented Rizabeth to me as her
promised gift, I, with childisli seriousness, inter-
preted her words literally, and looked upon Elizabeth
as mine — mine to protect, love, and cherish. All
praises bestowed on her, I received as made to a
possession of my own. We called each other
familiarly by the name of cousin. No word, no
expression could body forth the kind of relation in
which she stood to me— my more than sister, since
till death she was to be mine only.

CHAPTER II.

We were brought up together; there was not
quite a year difference in our ages. I need not
say that we were strangers to any species of dis-
uttion or dispme. Harmony was the soul of our
companionship, and the diversity and contrast that
subsisted in our characters drew us nearer together.
Elizabeth was of a calmer and more concentrated
disposition ; but, with all my ardour, I was capable
of a more intense application, and was more deeply
smitten with the thirst for knowledge. She busied
herself with following the aerial creations of the
poets; and in the majestic and wondrous scenes
which surrounded our Swiss home — the sublime
shapes of the mountains; the changes of the

48 FRANKENSTEIN ; OR,

seasons ; tempest and calm ; the silence of winter,
and the life and turbulence of our Alpine summers,
-—she found ample scope for admiration and delight
While my companion contemplated with a serious
and satisfied spirit the magnificent appearances of
things, I delighted in investigating their causes.
The world was to me a secret which I desired to
divine. Curiosity, earnest research to learn the
hidden laws of nature, gladness akin to rapture, as
they were unfolded to me, are among the earliest
sensations I can remember.

On the birth of a second son, my junior by
seven years, my parents gave up entirely their
wandering life, and fixed themselves in their native
country. We possessed a house in Geneva, and a
campagne on Belrive, the eastern shore of the lake,
at the distance of rather more than a league from
the city. We resided principally in the latter, and
the lives of my parents were passed in considerable
seclusion. It was my temper to avoid a crowd,
and to attach myself fervently to a few. I was in-
different, therefore, to my schoolfellows in general;
but I united myself in the bonds of the closest
friendship to one among them. Henry Clerval
was the son of a merchant of Geneva. He was a
boy of singular talent and fancy. He loved enter-
prise, hardship, and even danger, for its own sake.
He was deeply read in books of chivalry and
romance. He composed heroic songs, and began
to write many a tale of enchantment and knightly

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 49

adventure. He tried to make us act plays, and to
enter into masquerades, in which the characters
were drawn from the heroes of Roncesvalles, of
the Round Table of King Arthur, and the chival-
rous train who shed their blood to redeem the
Holy Sepulchre from the hands of the infidels.

No human being could have passed a happier
childhood than myself. My parents were possessed
by the very spirit of kindness and indulgence. We
felt that they were not the tyrants to rule our lot
according to their caprice, but the agents and
creators of all the many delights which we enjoyed.
When I mingled with other families, I distinctly
discerned how peculiarly fortunate my lot was, and
gratitude assisted the development of filial love.

My temper was sometimes violent, and my
passions vehement ; but by some law in my tem-
perature they were turned, not towards childish
pursuits, but to an eager desire to learn, and not
to learn all things indiscriminately. I confess that
neither the structure of languages, nor the code of
governments, nor the politics of various states, pos-
sessed attractions for me. It was the secrets of
heaven and earth that I desire'd to learn ; and whether
it was the outward substance of things, or the inner
spirit of nature and the mysterious soul of man
that occupied me, still my inquiries were directed
to the metaphysical, or, in its highest sense, the
physical secrets of the world.

Meanwhile Clerval occupied himself, so to speak,

50 FRANKENSTEIN; OR,

with the moral relations of things. The busy
stage of life, the virtues of heroes, and the actions
of men, were his theme ; and his hope and his
dream was to become one among those whose
names are recorded in story, as the gallant and
adventurous .benefactors of our species . The saintly
soul of Elizabeth shone like a shrine-dedicated
lamp in our peaceful home. Her sympathy was
ours ; her smile, her soft voice, the sweet glance
of her celestial eyes, were ever there to bless and
animate us. She was the living spirit of love to
soften and attract : I might have become sullen in
my study, rough through the ardour of my nature,
but that she was there to subdue me to a sem-
blance of her own gentleness. And Clerval —
could aught ill entrench on the noble spirit of
Clerval ?— yet he might not have been so perfectly
humane, so thoughtfol in his generosity — so full of
kindness and tenderness amidst his passion for ad-
venturous exploit, had she not onfolded to him the
real loveliness of beneficence, and made the doing
good the end and aim of his soaring ambition.

I feel exquisite pleasurein dwelling on the recollec-
tions of childhood, before misfortune had tainted
my mind, and changed its bright visions of exten-
sive usefulness into gloomy and narrow reflections
upon self. Besides, in drawing the picture of my
early days, I also record those evems which led,
by insensible steps, to my after tale of misery : for
when I would account to myself for the birth of

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 5 1

that passion, which afterwards riiied tny destiny,
I find it arise, like a mountain river, from ignoble
and almost forgotten sources; but swelling ^s it
proceeded, it became the torrent which in its
course has swept away ail my hopes and yoys*

Natural philosophy is the genius that has regu-
lated my fate ; I desire, therefore, in this narration,
"to sute those facts which led to my predilection
■for that science. When I was thirteen years of
age, we all went on a party of pleasure to the
baths near Thonon : the inclemency of the weather
obliged us to remain a day confined to the inn. In
this house I chanced to find a volume of the works
of Cornelius Agrippa. I opened it with apathy ;
the theory which he attempts to demonstrate, and
the wonderful facts which he relates, soon changed
this feeling into enthusiasm. A new light seemed
to dawn upon my mind ; and, bounding with joy,
I communicated my discovery to my father. My
father looked <:arelesdy at ike title-page of my
book, and said, '*Ah1 Cornelius Agrippa! My
dear Victor, do not waste your time upon this ; it
is sad trash.'*

If, instead of this remark, my father had taken
the pains to explain to me, that the principles of
Agrippa had been entirely exploded, and that x
modern system of science had been introduced^
whic^h possessed much greater powers than the
ancient, because the powers of the Jatter were
chimerical, while those of the former were real

52 FRANKENSTEIN ; OR,

and practical ; under such circumstances, I should
certainly have thrown Agrippa aside, and have
contented my imagination, warmed as it was, by
returning with greater ardour to my former studies.
It is even possible, that the train of my ideas would
never have received the fatal impulse that led to
my ruin. But the cursory glance my father had
taken of my volume by no means assured me that
he was acquainted with its contents ; and I con-
tinued to read with the greatest avidity.

When I returned home, my first care was to
procure the whole works of this author, and after-
wards of Paracelsus and Albertus Magnus. I read
and studied the wild fancies of these writers with
delight ; they appeared to me treasures known to
few beside myself. I have described myself as
always having been imbued with a fervent longing
to penetrate the secrets of nature. In spite of the
intense labour and wonderful discoveries of modern
philosophers, I always came from my studies dis-
contented and unsatisfied. Sir Isaac Newton is said
to have avowed that he felt like a child picking up
shells beside the great and unexplored ocean of
truth. Those of his successors in each branch of
natural philosophy with whom I was acquainted,
appeared even to my boy*s apprehensions as tyros
engaged in the same pursuit.

Theuntaught peasant beheld the elements around
him, and was acquainted with their practical uses.
The most learned philosopher knew little more.

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 53

He had partially unveiled the face of nature, but
her immortal lineaments were still a wonder and a
mystery. He might dissect, anatomise, and give
names ; but, not to speak of a final cause, causes
in their secondary and tertiary grades were utterly
unknown to him. I had gazed upon the fortifica-
tions and impediments that seemed to keep human
beings from entering the citadel of nature^ and
rashly and ignorantly I had repined.

But here were books, and here were men who
had penetrated deeper and knew more. I took
their word for all that they averred, and I became
their disciple. It may appear strange that such
should arise in the eighteenth century ; but while
I followed the routine of education in the schools
of Geneva, I was, to a great degree, self-taught
with regard to my favourite studies. My father
was not scientific, and I was left to struggle with
a child's blindness, added to a student's thirst for
knowledge. Under the guidance of my new pre-
ceptors, I entered with the greatest diligence into
the search of the philosopher's stone and the elixir
of life ; but the latter soon obtained my undivided
attention. Wealth was an inferior object; but
what glory would attend the discovery, if I could
banish disease from the human frame, and render
man invulnerable to any but a violent death !

Nor were these my only visions. The raising
of ghosts or devils was a promise liberally accorded
by my favourite authors, the fulfilment of which I

54 FRANKENSTEIN i OR^

most eagerly sought ; and if my incantations were
always unsuccessful, I attributed the failure rather
to my own inexperience and mistake, than to a
want of skill or fidelity in my instructors. And
thus for a time I was occupied by exploded systems,
mingling, like an unadept, a thousand contradictory
theories, and floundering desperately in a very
slough of multifarious knowledge, guided by an
ardent imagination and childish reasoning^ till an
accident again changed the current of my ideas;

When I was about fifteen years old we had re-
tired to our house near Bekive, when we witnessed
a most violent and terrible thunderstorm. It ad-
vanced from behind the mountains of Jura ; and
the thunder burst at once with frightful loudness
from various quarters of the heavens. I remained,
while the storm lasted, watching its progress with
•curiosity and delight. As I stood at the door, on a
sudden I beheld a streani of fire issue from an old
and beautiful oak, which stood about twenty yards
froni our house ; and so soon as the dazzling l%ht
vanished, the oak had disappeared, and nothing
remained but a blasted stump. When we visited
it the next morning, we found the tree shattered
in a singular manner. It was not splintered by the
shock, but entirely reduced to thin ribands of wood.
I never beheld anything so utterly destroyed.

Before this I was not unacquainted with the
more obvious laws of electricity. On this occasion
a man of great research in natural philosophy was

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 55

with US, and, excited by this catastrophe, he entered
on the explanation of a theory which he had formed
on the subjea of electricity and galvanism, which
was at once new and astonishing to Hie. All
that he said threw greatly into the shade Cornelius
Agrippa, Albertus Magnus, and Paracelsus, the
lords of my imagmation ; but by some fatality the
overthrow of these men disinclined me to pursue my
accustomed studies. It seemed to me as if nothing
would or could ever be known. All that had so
long engaged my attention suddenly grew despi-
cable. By one of those caprices of the mind, which
we are perhaps most subject to in early youth, I at
once gave up my former occupations ; set down
natural history and all its progeny as a deformed
and abortive creation ; and entertained the greatest
disdain for a would-be science, which could never
even step within the threshold of real knowledge.
In this mood of mind I betook myself to the
mathematics, and the branches of study apper-
taining to that science, as being built upon secure
foundations, and so worthy of my consideration.

Thus strangely are our souls constructed, and by
such slight ligaments are we bound to prosperity
or ruin. When I look back, it seems to me as if
this almost miraculous change of inclination and
will was the immediate suggestion of the guardian
angel of my life — the last effort made by the spirit
of preservation to avert the storm that was even
then hanging in the stars, and ready to envelop

$6 FRANKENSTEIN ; OR,

me. Her victory was announced by an unusual
tranquillity and gladness of soul, which followed
the relinquishing of my ancient and latterly tor-
menting 'studies, it was thus that I was to be
taught to associate evil with their prosecution,
happiness with their disregard.

It was a strong effort of the spirit of good ; but
it was ineffectual. Destiny was too potent, and
her immutable laws had decreed my utter and
terrible destruction.

CHAPTER III.

When I had attained the age of seventeen, my
parents resolved that I should become a student
at the University of Ingolstadt. I had hitherto
attended the schools of Geneva; but my father
thought it necessary, for the completion of my edu-
cation, that I should be made acquainted with other
customs than those of my native country. My
departure was therefore fixed at an early date ; but,
before the day resolved upon could arrive, the first
misfortune of my life occurred — an omen, as it
were, of my future misery.

Elizabeth had caught the scarlet fever ; her ill-
ness was severe, and she was in the greatest danger.
During her illness, many arguments had been urged
to persuade my mother to refrain from attending
upon her. She had, at first, yielded to our en-

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 57

treaties ; but when she heard that the life of her
favourite was menaced, she could no longer control
her anxiety. She attended her sick-bed, — her
watchful attentions triumphed over the malignity
of the distemper, — Elizabeth was saved, but the
consequences of this imprudence were fatal to her
preserver. On the third day my mother sickened ;
her fever was accompanied by the most alarming
symptoms, and the looks of her medical attendants
prognosticated the worst event. On her death-bed
the fortitude and benignity of this best of women
did not desert her. She joined the hands of Eliza-
beth and myself: — "My children," she said, **my
firmest hopes of future happiness were placed on
the prospect of your union. This expectation will
now be the consolation of your father. Elizabeth,
my love, you must supply my place to my younger
children. Alas 1 I regret that I am taken from you ;
and, happy and beloved as I have been, is it not
hard to quit you all ? But these are not thoughts
befitting me; I will endeavour to resign myself
cheerfully to death, and will indulge a hope of
meeting you in another world."

She died calmly ; and her countenance expressed
affection even in death. I need not describe the
feelings of those whose dearest ties are rent by that
most irreparable evil ; the void that presents itself
to the soul ; and the despair that is exhibited on
the countenance. It is so long before the mind can
persuade itself that she, whom we saw every day,

^8 FRANKENSTEIN; OR,

and whose very existence appeared a part of otir
own, can have departed for ever — that the bright-
ness of a beloved eye can have been extinguished,
and the sound of a voice so familiar, and dear to
the ear, can be hushed, never more to be heard.
These are the reflections of the first days; but
when the lapse of time proves the reality of the
e\'il, then the actual Wttemess of grief commences.
Yet from whom has not that rude Itand rent away
some dear connection ? and why should I describe
a sorrow which all have felt, and must fed ? Tlie
time at length arrives, when grief is rather an
indulgence than a necessity; and the smile that
plays upon the lips, although it may be deemed a
sacrilege, is not banished. My mother was dead,
but we had still duties which we ought to perform ;
we must continue our course with the rest, and
learn to think ourselves fortunate, whilst one
remains whom the spoiler has not seized.

My departure for Ingolstadt, which bad been
deferred by these events, was now again determined
upon, I obtained from mj' father a respite of some
weeks. It appeared to me sacrilege so soon to
leave the repose, akin to death, of the house of
mourning, and to rush into the thick of life. I
was new to sorrow, but it did not the less alarm
me. I was unwilling to quit the sight of those that
remained to me ; and, above all, I desired to see
my sweet Elizabeth in some degree consoled.

She indeed veiled her grief, and strove to act the

THE MODERN PR03f£TH£US. 59

comforter to us alL She looked steadily on life,
and assumed its duties with courage and zeal. She
devoted herself to those whom she had been taught
to call her uncle and cousins. Never was she so
enchanting as at this time, when she recalled the
sunsliine of her smiles and spent tiiem upon us.
She fo^ot even her own regret in her endeavours
to make us forget.

The day of my dq)arture at length arrived.
Clerval spent the last evening widi us. He had
endeavoured to persuade his father to permit him
to accompany me, and to become my fellow-
student ; but in vain. His fiather was a narrow-
minded trader, aod saw idloiess and ruin in the
aspirations and ambition of his son. Henry deeply
felt the misfortune of being debarred from a liberd
education. He said littk ; but when he spoke, I
read in his kindling eye and in his animated glance
a restcained but firm resolve, not to be chakied to
the miserable details of commerce.

We sat late. We could not tear ourselves away
from eadi other, nor persuade ourselves to say the
word ** Farewell ! " It was said ; and we retired
under the pretence of seeking repose, each fancying
that the other was deceived : but when at mom-
ning's dawn I descended to the carriage which
was to convey me away, they were all there —
my father again to bless me, Clerval to press my
liand once more* my Elizabeth to rene^ her en-
treaties that I would write often, and to bestow

6o FRANKENSTEIN ; OR,

the last feminine attentions on her playmate and
friend.

I threw myself into the chaise that was to convey
me away, and indulged in the most melancholy
reflections. I, who had ever been surrounded by
amiable companions, continually engaged in endeav-
ouring to bestow mutual pleasure, I was now alone.
In the university, whither I was going, I must
form my own friends, and be my own protector.
My life had hitherto been remarkably secluded and
domestic ; and this had given me invincible repug-
nance to new countenances. I loved my brothers,
Elizabeth, and Clerval ; these were " old familiar
faces ; " but I believed myself totally unfitted for
the company of strangers. Such were my reflec-
tions as I commenced my journey ; but as I pro-
ceeded, my spirits and hopes rose. I ardently
desired the acquisition of knowledge. I had often,
when at home, thought it hard to remain during
my youth cooped up in one place, and had longed
to enter the world, and take my station among
other human beings. Now my desires were com-
plied with, and it would, indeed, have been folly
to repent.

I had suflficient leisure for these and many other
reflections during my journey to Ingolstadt, which
was long and fatiguing. At length the high white
steeple of the town met my eyes. I. alighted, and
was conducted to my solitary apartment, to spend
the evening as I pleased.

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 6 1

The next morning 1 delivered my letters of
introduction, and paid a visit to some of the
principal professors. Chance — or rather the evil
influence, the Angel of Destruction, which asserted
omnipotent sway over me from the moment I
turned my reluctant steps from my father's door
— led me first to M. Krempe, professor of natural
philosophy. He was an uncouth man, but deeply
imbued in the secrets of his science. He asked
me several questions concerning my progress in
the different branches of science appertaining to
natural philosophy. I replied carelessly; and,
partly in contempt, mentioned the names of my
alchemists as the principal authors I had studied.
The professor stared : ** Have you," he said, "really
spent your time in studying such nonsense ? "

I replied in the affirmative. '* Every minute,"
continued M. Krempe with warmth, "everj' instant
that you have wasted on those books is utterly and
entirely lost. You have burdened your memory
with exploded systems and useless names. Good
God 1 in what desert land have you lived, where
no one was kind enough to inform you that these
fancies, which you have so greedily imbibed, are a
thousand years old, and as musty as they are
ancient ? I little expected, in this enlightened and
scientific age, to find a disciple of Albertus Magnus
and Paracelsus. My dear sir, you must begin
your studies entirely anew.*'

So saying, he stept aside, and wrote down a list

62 FRANKENSTEIN; OR,

of several books treating of natural philosophy,
which he desired me to procure ; and dismissed
me, after mentioning that in the beginning of the
following week he intended to commeiKe a course
of lectures upon natural philosophy in its general
relations, and that M. Waldman, a fellow-professor,
would lecture upon chemistry the alternate days
that he omitted.

I returned home not disappointed, for I haye said
that I had long considered those authors useless
whom the professor reprobated ; but I returned,
not at all the more inclined to recur to these studies
in any shape. M. Krempe was a little squat man,
with a gruff voice and a repulsive countenance ;
the teacher, therefore, did not prepossess me in
favour of his pursuits. In rather a too philosophical
and connected a strain, perhaps, I have given an
account of the conclusions I had come to concerning
them in my early years. As a child, I had not
been content with the results promised by the
modern professors of natural science. With a
confusion of ideas only to be accounted for by my
extreme youth, and my want of a guide on such
matters, I had retrod the steps of knowledge along
the paths of time, and exchanged the discoveries of
recent inquirers for the dreams of forgotten alche-
mists. Besides, I had a contempt for the uses of
modem natural philosophy. It was very different,
when the masters of the science sought immor-
tality and power ; such views, although futile, were

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 63

grand : but now the scene ^-as changed. The
ambition of the inquirer seemed to limit itself to the
annihilation of those visions on which my interest
in science was chiefly founded. I was required
to exchange diimeras of boundless grandeur for
realities of Kttle worth.

Such were my reflections during the first two or
tkree days of my residence at Ingolstadt, which
were chiefly spent in becoming acquainted with
the localities, and die principal residents in my
new abode. But as the ensuing week commenced,
I thought of the information which M. Krempe
had given me concerning the lectures. And
although I could not consem to go and hear that
little conceited fellow deliver sentences out of a
pulpit, I recollected what he had said of M. Wald-
man, whom I had never seen, as he had hitherto
been out of town.

Partly from curiosity, and partly from idleness,
I went into the lecturing room, which M. Wald-
man emered shortly after. This professor was
very unlike his coUeague. He appeared about
fifty years of age, but with an aspect expressive of
the greatest benevolence ; a few grey hairs covered
his temples, but those at the back of his head were
nearly black. His person was short, but remark-
ably erect ; and his voice the sweetest I had ever
heard. He began his lecture by a recapitulation
of the history of chemistry, and the various
improvements made by different men of learning,

64 FRANKENSTEIN; OR,

pronouncing with fervour the names of the most
distinguished discoverers. He then took a cursory
view of the present state of the science, and
explained many of its elementary terms. After
having made a few preparatory experiments, he con-
cluded with a panegyric upon modem chemistry,
the terms of which I shall never forget

" The ancient teachers of this science,** said he,
" promised impossibilities, and performed nothing.
The modern masters promise very little ; they
know that metals cannot be transmuted, and
that the elixir of life is a chimera. But these
philosophers, whose hands seem only made to
dabble in dirt, and their eyes to pore over the
microscope or crucible, have indeed performed
miracles. They penetrate into the recesses of
nature, and show how she works in her hiding-
places. They ascend into the heavens : they
have discovered how the blood circulates, and the
nature of the air we breathe. They have acquired
new and almost unlimited powers ; they can com-
mand the thunders of heaven, mimic the earth-
quake, and even mock the invisible world with
its own shadows."

Such were the professor's words— rather let me
say such the words of fate, enounced to destroy
me. As he went on, I felt as if my soul were
grappling with a palpable enemy ; one by one the
various keys were touched which formed the
mechanism of my being ; chord after chord was

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 65

sounded, and soon my mind was filled with one
thought, one conception, one purpose. So much
has been done, exclaimed the soul of Frankenstein,
— more, far more, will I achieve : treading in the
steps already marked, I will pioneer a new way,
explore unknown powers, and unfold to the world
the deepest m)rsteries of creation.

I closed not my eyes that night My internal
being was in a state of insurrection and turmoil ;
1 felt that order would thence arise, but I had
no power to produce it. By degrees, after the
morning's dawn, sleep came. I awoke, and my
yesternight's thoughts were as a dream. There
only remained a resolution to return to my ancient
studies, and to devote myself to a science for which
I believed myself to possess a natural talent. On
the same day, I paid M. Waldman a visit. His
manners in private were even more mild and
attractive than in public ; for there was a certain
dignity in his mien during his lecture, which in
his own house was replaced by the greatest affability
and kindness. I gave him pretty nearly the same
account of my former pursuits as I had given to his
fellow- professor. He heard with attention the little
narration concerning my studies, and smiled at the
names of Cornelius Agrippa and Paracelsus, but with-
out the contempt that M. Krempe had exhibited.
He said, that ** these were men to whose inde-
fatigable zeal modem philosophers were indebted
for most of the foundations of their knowledge.

(31) c

<66 fbakkensthn; ok,

They had left to us, as an easier task, to give new
ixames, aod arrange in connected classifications, the
facts which they in a great degree had been the
instruments of bringing to light. The labours
of men of geniuSj however erroneously directed,
-scarcely ever fail in ultimately turning to the solid
advantage of mankind." I listened to hisstatement,
which was delivered without any presumption or
■affectation ; and then added, that his lectui<e had re-
moved my prejudicesagainstmodem chemists; I ex-
pressed myself in measured terms, with the modesty
and deiereixe due from a youth to his instructor^
without letting escape (inexperience in life would
have made me ashamed) any of the enthusiasm
which stimulated my intended labours. I requested
his advice concerning the books I ought to procure.
" I am happy," said M. Waldnian, ** to have
gained a disciple ; and if your application equals
your ability, 1 have no doubt of your success.
Chemistry is that branch of natural philosopliy in
which the greatest improvements have been and
may be made : it is on that account that I have
made it my peculiar study ; but at the same time I
have not neglected die other branches of science.
A man would make but a very sorry chemist if he
attended to that department of human knowledge
alone. If your wish is to become really a man of
science, and not merely a petty experimentalist, I
should advise you to apply to every branch of
natural philosophy, including mathematics."

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 67

He then took me into his laboratory, and ex-
pkined to me the uses of his varioirs machines ;
instructing me as to what I ought to procure, and
promising me the use of his own when I should
have advanced far enough in the science not to
derange their mechanism. He also gave me the
list of books which I had requested ; and i took
my leave.

Thus ended a day memorable to me ; it decided
my future destiny.

CHAPTER IV.

From dns day natural philosophy, and particularly
chemistry, in the most comprehensive sense of the
term, became nearly my sde occupation, I read
with ardour those works, so full of genius and dis-
crimination, which modem inquirers ha\'e written
on these subjects. I attended the leaures, and
cultivated the acquaintance, of the men of science
c^ the university ; and I found even in M. Krempe
a great deal of sound sense and real in^mation,
combined, it is true, with a repulsive physiognomy
and manners^ but not on that account the less
valuable. In M. Waldman I found a true friend.
His gentleness was never tinged by dogmatism;
and his instructions were given with an air of
frankness and good-nature, that banished every
idea of pedantry. In a thousand ways he smoothed

68 FRANKENSTEIN *, OR,

for me the path of knowledge, and made the most
abstruse inquiries clear and facile to my apprehen-
sion. My application was at first fluctuating and
uncertain ; it gained strength as I proceeded, and
soon became so ardent and eager, that the stars
often disappeared in the light of morning whilst I
was yet engaged in my laboratory.

As I applied so closely, it may be easily con-
ceived that my progress was rapid. My ardour was
indeed the astonishment of the students, and my
proficiency that of the masters. Professor Krempe
often asked me, with a sly smile, how Cornelius
Agrippa went on ? whilst M. Waldman expressed
the most heartfelt exultation in my progress. Two
years passed in this manner, during which I paid
no visit to Geneva, but was engaged, heart and
soul, in the pursuit of some discoveries, which I
hoped to make. None but those who have ex-
perienced them can conceive of the enticements of
science. In other studies you go as far as others
have gone before you, and there is nothing more
to know ; but in a scientific pursuit there is con-
tinual food for discovery and wonder. A mind
of moderate capacity, which closely pursues one
study, must infallibly arrive at great proficiency in
that study: and I, who continually sought the
attainment of one object of pursuit, and was solely
wrapt up in this, improved so rapidly, that, at the
end of two years, I made some discoveries in the
improvement of some chemical instruments, which

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 69

procured me great esteem and admiration at the
university. When I had arrived at this point, and
had become as well acquainted with the theory
and practice of natural philosophy as depended on
the lessons of any of the professors at Ingolstadt,
my residence there being no longer conducive to
my improvements, I thought of returning to my
friends and my native town, when an incident
happened that protracted my stay.

One of the phenomena which had peculiarly
attracted my attention was the structure of the
human frame, and, indeed, any animal endued
with life. Whence, I often asked myself, did the
principle of life proceed ? It was a bold question,
and one which has ever been considered as a
mystery ; yet with how many things are we upon
the brink of becoming acquainted, if cowardice
or carelessness did not restrain our inquiries. I
revolved these circumstances in my mind, and de-
termined thenceforth to apply myself more particu-
larly to those branches of natural philosophy which
relate to ph)rsiology. Unless I had been animated
by an almost supernatural enthusiasm, my applica-
tion to this study would have been irksome, and
almost intolerable. To examine the causes of life,
we must first have recourse to death. I became
acquainted with the science of anatomy : but this
was not sufficient ; I must also observe the natural
decay and corruption of the human body. In my
education my father had taken the greatest pre-

70 FRANKENSTEIN; OR,

cautions that my mind should be impressed with
no supernatural horrors. I do not ever remehaber
to liave trembled at a tale of superstition, or to have
feared the apparition of a spirit, Dackness had no
effea upon my £ancy; and a church^^ard was to
me merely tlie receptacle of bodies deprived of life,
which, from being the seat of beauty and strength,
had become food for the worm. Now I was led
to examine the cause and progress of this decay,
and forced to spend days and nights in vaults
and charnel-houses. My attention was fixed upon
every objea tlie most insupportable to the delicacy
of the human feelings. I saw how the fine fonn
of man was degraded and wasted ; I beheld the
corruption of death succeed to the blooming chedc
of life ; I saw how the worm inherited the wonders
of the eye and braio. I paused, examining and
analysing all the minutiae of causation, as exemplified
in the change from Hfe to death, and death to life,
until from the midst of this darkness a sudden H^
broke in upon me— a light so brilliant and wondrous,
yet so simple, that while I became dizzy with the
immensity of the prospect which it illustrated, i
was surprised, that among so many men of genius
who had directed their inquiries towards the same
science, that I alone should be reserved to discover
so astonishing a secret.

Remember, 1 am not recording the vision of a
madman. The sun does not more certainly shine
in the heavens, than that which 1 now affirm is true.

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. yt

Some mirack might hare produced h, y^ the stages •
of the discovery were distinct and probable. After
days and nights of incredible labour and fatigue, I
s u c ceede d in dbco^^dg the cause of generation ondi
life ; nay, moce, I became myself capable of bestow-
ing animation upon lifeless matter.

The astonishment "vhidi I had at first experienced
on this discovery soon gave j^ce to dcKght and
rapture. After so mudi time spent in painful labou r,,
to arrive at once at the summit of my desires, was
the most gratifying consummation of my toils. But
tliis discovery was so great and overwhelming, that
all the steps by which I had been progressiv^y led
to it were obliterated, and I beheld only the result.
What had been the study and desire of the wisest
men since the creation of the world wass now within
my grasp. Not that, Hke a magic scene, it aM opened,
upon me at once : die information I had obtained
was of a nature rather to direct my endeavours so
soon as I should point them towanis tbe object of
my search, than to exhibit that cAyyict already
accoQc^lished. I was like the Ambiau who had
been buried with the dead, and fotmd a passage to^
life, aided only by one glimmering, and seemingly
ineffectual, light.

I see by your eagerness, and the wander and hope
wliich your eyes express, my friend, that you expcct
to be informed of the secret with which I am ac-
quainted ; that cannot be : listen patiently until the
end of my story, and you will easily perceive whjr

72 FRANKENSTEIN; OR,

I am reserved upon that subject. I will not lead
you on, unguarded and ardent as I then was, to
your destruction and infallible misery. Learn from
me, if not by my precepts, at least by my example,
how dangerous is the acquirement of knowledge,
and how much happier that man is who believes
his native town to be the world, than he who as-
pires to become greater than his nature will allow.
When I found so astonishing a power placed
within my hands, I hesitated a long time con-
cerning the manner in which I should employ it.
Although I possessed the capacity of bestowing
animation, yet to prepare a frame for the reception
of it, with all its intricacies of fibres, muscles, and
veins, still remained a work of inconceivable diffi-
culty and labour. I doubted at first whether I
should attempt the creation of a being like myself,
or one of simpler organisation ; but my imagi-
nation was too much exalted by my first success
to permit me to doubt of my ability to give life to
an animal as complex and wonderful as man. The
materials at present within my command hardly
appeared adequate to so arduous an undertaking ;
but I doubted not that I should ultimately succeed.
I prepared myself for a multitude of reverses : my
operations might be incessantly baffled, and at last
my work be imperfect : yet, when I considered
the improvement which every day takes place in
science and mechanics, I was encouraged to hope
my present attempts would at least lay the founda-

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS, 73

tions of future success. Nor could I consider the
magnitude and complexity of my plan as any argu-
ment of its impracticability. It was with these
feelings that I began the creation of a human being*
As the minuteness of the parts formed a great hin-
drance to my speed, I resolved, contrary to my first
intention, to make the being of a gigantic stature ;
that is to say, about eight feet in height, and pro-
portionably large. After having formed this deter-
mination, and having spent some months in success-
fully collecting and arranging my materials, I begaa

No one can conceive the variety of feehngs which
bore me onwards, like a hurricane, in the first
enthusiasm of success. Life and death appeared
to me ideal bounds, which I should first break
through, and pour a torrent of light into our dark
world. A new species would bless me as its creator
and source; many happy and excellent natures
would owe their being to me. No father could
claim the gratitude of his child so completely as I
should deserve theirs. Pursuing these reflections,
I thought, that if I could bestow animation upon
lifeless matter, I might in process of time (although
I now found it impossible) renew life where death
had apparently devoted the body to corruption.

These thoughts supported my spirits, while I
pursued my undertaking with unremitting ardour.
My cheek had grown pale with . study, and my
person had become emaciated with confinement.
Sometimes, on the very brink of certainty, I failed ;

74 FRANKEKSTEIN ; OR,

3ret still I clung to the hope which the next day or
the next hour might realise. One secret which I
akme possessed was the hope to which I had dedi-
■cated myself ; and the moon gazed on my midnight
labours,- while, with unrdaxed and breathless eager-
ness, I pursued nature to her hiding-places. Who
shall conceive the horrors of my secret toil, as I
<Jabbled among the unhallowed damps of the grave,
or tortured the living animal to animate the lifeless
<lay ? My limbs now tremble, and my eyes swim
with the remembrance ; but then a resistless, and
almost frantic impulse, urged me forward ; I
seemed to have lost all soul or sensation but for
this one pursuit. It was indeed but a passing
trance, that only made me feel with renewed acute-
ness so soon as, the unnatural stimulus ceasing
to operate, I had rctiumcd to my old habits. I
collected bones from chamel-liouses ; and disturbed,
with profene fingers, the tremendous secrets of the
human frame. In a solitary chamber, or rather
cell, at the top of the house, and separated from
all the other apartments by a gallery and staircase,
I kept my workshop, of filthy creation : my eye-
balls were starting from their sockets in attending
to the deuils of my employment* The dissecting-
room and the slaughter-house furnished many of
my materials; and often did my human nature
turn with loathing from my occupation, whilst^
still urged on by an eagerness which perpetually
increased, I brought my work near to a conclusion.

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 75

The summer months passed while I was thus
engaged, heart and soul, in one pursuit. It was a
most beautiful season ; never did the fields bestow
a more plentiful harvest, or the vines yield a more
luxuriant vintage : but my eyes were insensible to
the charms of nature. And the same feelings which
made me neglect the scenes around me caused me
also to forget those friends who were so many miles
absent, and whom I had not seen for so long a time.
I knew my silence disquieted them ; and I well re-
membered the words of my father : " I know that
while you are pleased with yourself, you will think
of us with affection, and we shall hear regularly
from youi You must pardon me if I regard any
interruption in your correspondence as a proof tliat
your other duties are equally neglected."

I knew well, therefore, what would be my father's
feelings ; but I could not tear my thoughts from
my employment, loathsome in itself, but which had
taken an irresistible hold of my imagination. I
wished, as it were, to procrastinate all that related
to my feelings of affection until the great object,
which swallowed up every habit of my nature,
should be completed.

I then thought that my father would be unjust if
he ascribed my neglect to vice, or faultiness on my
part ; but I am now convinced that he was justified
in conceiving that I should not be altogether free
from blame. A human being in perfection ought
always to preserve a calm and peaceful mind, and

76 FRANKENSTEIN; OR,

never to allow passion or a transitory desire to dis-
turb his tranquillity. I do not think that the pur-
suit of knowledge is an exception to this rule. If
tiie study to which you apply yourself has a ten-
dency to weaken your affections, and to destroy
your taste for those simple pleasures in which no
alloy can possibly mix, then that study is certainly
unlawful, that is to say, not befitting the human
mind . If this rule were always observed ; if no man
allowed any pursuit whatsoever to interfere with
the tranquillity of his domestic affections ; Greece
had not been enslaved ; Cresar would have spared
his country ; America would have been discovered
more gradually ; and the empires of Mexico and
Peru had not been destroyed.

But I forget that I am moralising in the most
interesting part of my tale ; and your looks remind
me to proceed.

My father made no reproach in his letters, and
only took notice of my silence by inquiring into my
occupations more particularly than before. Winter,
spring, and summer passed away during my labours;
but I did not watch the blossom or the expanding
leaves— sights which before always yielded me
supreme delight — so deeply was I engrossed in my
occupation. The leaves of that year had withered
before my work drew near to a close ; and now
every day showed me more plainly how well I had
succeeded. But my enthusiasm was checked by
my anxiety, and I appeared rather like one doomed

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 77

by slavery to toil in the mines, or any other un-
wholesome trade, than an artist occupied by his
favourite employment. Every night I was oppressed
by a slow fever, and 1 became nervous to a most
painful degree ; the fall of a leaf startled me, and I
shunned my fellow-creatures as if I had been guilty
of a crime. Sometimes I grew alarmed at the wreck
I perceived that I had become ; the energy of mypur-
pose alone sustained me : my labours would soon
end, and I believed that exercise and amusement
would then drive away incipient disease; and I
promised myself both of these when my creation
should be complete.

CHAPTER V.

It was on a dreary night of November, that I beheld
the accomplishment of my toils. With an anxiety
that almost amounted to agony, I collected the
instruments of life around me, that I might infuse
a spark of being into the lifeless thing that lay at
my feet. It was already one in the morning ; the
rain pattered dismally against the panes, and my
candle was nearly burnt out, when, by the glimmer
of the half-extinguished light, I saw the dull yellow
eye of the creamre open ; it breathed hard, and a
convulsive motion agitated its limbs.

How can I describe my emotions at this catas-
trophe, or how delineate the wretch whom with

78 FRANKENSTEIN; OR

such infinite pains and care I had endeavoured to
form? His Hmbs were in proportion, and I had
selected his features as beautiful. Beautiful ! —
Great God ! His yellow skin scarcely covered the
work of muscles and arteries beneath ; his hair was
of a lustrous black, and flowing ; his teeth of a pearly
whiteness ; but these luxuriances only formed a more
horrid contrast with his watery eyes, that seemed
almost of the same colour as the dun white sockets
in which they were set, his shrivelled complexion
and straight black lips.

The different accidents of life are not so change-
able as the feelings of human nature. I had worked
hard for nearly two years, for the sole purpose of
infusing life into an inanimate body. For this I had
deprived myself of rest and health. I had desired
it with an ardour that far exceeded moderation ;
but now that I had finished, the beauty of the dream
vanished, and breathless horror and disgust filled
my heart. Unable to endure the aspect of the being
I had created, I rushed out of the room, and con-
tinued a long time traversing my bedchamber,
unable to compose my mind to sleep. At length las-
situde succeeded to the tumult I had before endured ;
and I threw myself on tlie bed in my clothes,
endeavouring to seek a few moments of forgetflil-
ness. But it was in vain : I slept, indeed, but I was
disturbed by the wildest dreams. I thought I saw
Elizabeth, in the bloom of healtli, walking in the
streets of Ingolstadt. Delighted and surprised, I

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 79

embraced her ; but as I imprinted the first kiss oa
her lips, they became livid with the hue of death ;
her features appeared to change, and I thought that
I held the onrpse of my dead mother in my arms ;
a shroud enveloped her form, and I saw the grave*'
worms crawling in the folds of the flannel. I started
from my sleep with horror ; a cold dew covered
my forehead, my teeth chattered, and every limb
became convulsed : when, by the dim and yellow
light of the moon, as it forced its way tlirough the
window shutters, I beheld the wretch — the miser-
able naonster whom I had created. He held up
the curtain of the bed ; and liis eyes^ if eyes they
may be called, were fixed on me. His jaws opened,
and he muttered some inarticulate sounds^ while a
grin wrinkled his cheeks. He might have spoken^
but I did not hear ; one hand was stretched out,,
seemingly to detain me, but I escaped, and rushed
downstairs. I took refuge in the courtyard belong-
ing to the house which I inhabited ; where I re-
mained during the rest of the night, walking up
and down in the greatest agitation, listening atten-
tively, catching and fearing each sound as if it
were to announce the approach of the demoniacal
corpse to which I had so miserably given life.

Ohl no mortal could support the horror of
that countenance. A mummy again endued with
animation could not be so hideous as that wretch.
I had gazed on him while unfinislied ; he was
ugly then; but when those muscles and joints

80 FRANKENSTEIN ; OR,

were rendered capable of motion, it became a thing
such as even Dante could not have conceived.

I passed the night wretchedly. Sometimes my
pulse beat so quickly and hardly, that I felt the
palpitation of every artery ; at others, I nearly sank
to the ground through languor and extreme weak-
ness. Mingled with this horror, I felt the bitter-
ness of disappointment ; dreams that had been my
food and pleasant rest for so long a space were
now become a hell to me: and the change was
so rapid, the overthrow so complete I

Morning, dismal and wet, at length dawned,
and discovered to my sleepless and aching eyes the
church of Ingolstadt, its white steeple and clock,
which indicated the sixth hour. The porter opened
the gates of the court, which had that night been
my asylum, and I issued into the streets, pacing
them with quick steps, as if I sought to avoid the
wretch whom I feared eveiy turning of the street
would present to my view. I did not dare return
to the apartment which I inhabited, but feh im-
pelled to hurry on, although drenched by the rain
which poured from a black and comfortless sky.

I continued walking in this manner for some
time, endeavouring, by bodily exercise, to ease the
load that weighed upon my mind. I traversed the
streets, without any clear conception of where I
was, or what I was doing. My heart palpitated in
the sickness of fear ; and I hurried on with irregular
steps, not daring to look about me : —

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 8 1

" Like one when on a lonely road,
Doth walk in fear and dread,
And, having once turned round, walks on.

And turns no more his head ;
Because he knows a frightful fiend
Doth close behind him tread." *

Continuing thus, I came at length opposite to the
inn at which the various diligences and carriages
usually stopped. Here I paused, I knew not why ;
but I remained some minutes with my eyes fixed
on a coach that was coming towards me from the
other end of the street. As it drew nearer, I ob-
served that it was the Swiss diligence : it stopped
just where I was standing ; and, on the door being
opened, I perceived Henry Clerval, who, on seeing
me, instantly sprang out, " My dear Frankenstein,"
exclaimed he, " how glad I am to see you ! how
fortunate that you should be here at the very
moment of my alighting I "

Nothing could equal my delight on seeing Clerval;
his presence brought back to my thoughts my father,
Elizabeth, and all those scenes of home so dear to
my recollection. I grasped his hand, and in a
moment forgot my horror and misfortune ; I felt
suddenly, and for the first time during many
months, calm and serene joy. I welcomed my
friend, therefore, in the most cordial manner, and
we walked towards my college. Clerval continued
talking for some time about our mutual friends, and
his own good fortune in being permitted to come

* Coleridge's "Ancient Mariner.**

82 FRANKENSTEIN ; OR,

to Ingolstadt. *' You may easily believe," said he,
**how great was the difficulty to persuade my
father that all necessary knowledge was not com-
prised in the noble art of book-keeping; and,
indeed, I believe I left him incredulous to the last,
for his constant answer to my unwearied entreaties
was the same as that of the Dutch schoolmaster in
the Vicar of Wakefield : — * I have ten thousand
florins a year without Greek, I eat heartily without
Greek.' But his affection for me at length over-
came his dislike of learning, and he has pei^mitted
me to undertake a voyage of discovery to tlie land
of knowledge."

" It gives me the greatest delight to see you •,
but tell me how you left my father, brothers, and
Elizabeth?"

*' Very well, and very happy, only a little uneasy
that they hear from you so seldom. By-the-bye,
I mean to lecture you a little upon their account
myself. — But, my dear Frankenstein," continued
he, stopping short, and gazing full in my face, " I
did not before remark how very ill you appear ; so
thin and pale ; you look as if you had been watching
for several nights."

** You have guessed right ; I have lately been so
deeply engaged in one occupation, that I have not
allowed myself sufficient rest, as you see: but I
hope, I sincerely hope, that all these employments
are now at an end, and that I am at length free."

I trembled excessively; I could not endure to

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 8j

think of, and far less to allude to, the occurrences,
of the preceding night. I walked with a quick
pace, and we soon arrived at my college. I thea
reflected, and the thought made me shiver, that
the creature whom I had left in my apartment
might still be there, alive, and walking about, 1
dreaded to behold this monster ; but I feared still
more that Henry should see him. Entreating him,
therefore, to remain a few minutes at the bottom
of the stairs, I darted up towards my own room.
My hand was already on the lock of the door before
I recolleaed myself. I then paused ; and a cdd
shivering came over me. I threw the door forcibly
open, as children are accustomed to do when they
expect a spectre to stand in waiting for them on
the other side ; but nothing appeared. I stepped,
fearfully in : the apartment was empty ; and my
bed-room was also freed from its hideous guest. I
could hardly believe that so great a good fortune-
could have befallen me ; but when I became assured
that my enemy had indeed fled, I clapped my hands-
for joy, and ran down to Clerval.

We ascended into my room, and the servant poe-
sently brought breakfast ; but I was unable to con-
tain myself. It was not joy only that possessed me p
I felt my flesh tmgle with excess of sensitiveness,
and my pulse beat rapidly. 1 was unable to reraaia
for a single instant in the same place ; I jumped over
the chairs, clapped my hands, and laughed aloud,
Clerval at first attributed my unusual spirits to joy

84 FRANKENSTEIN; OR,

on his arrival; but when he observed me more
attentively, he saw a wildness in my eyes for which
he could not account ; and my loud, unrestrained,
heartless laughter, frightened and astonished him.

" My dear Victor," cried he, ** what, for God's
sake, is the matter ? Do not laugh in that manner.
How ill you are ! What is the cause of all this ? "

'* Do not ask me," cried I, putting my hands be-
fore my eyes, for I thought I saw the dreaded spectre
glide into the room ; " ^ can tell. — Oh save me !
save me ! " I imagined that the monster seized me ;
I struggled furiously, and fell down in a fit.

Poor Clerval ! what must have been his feelings ?
A meeting, which he anticipated with such joy, so
strangely turned to bitterness. But I was not the
witness of his grief; for I was lifeless, and did not
recover my senses for a long, long time.

This was the commencement of a nervous fever,
which confined me for several months. During all
that time Henry was my only nurse. I afterwards
learned that, knowing my father's advanced age,
and unfitness for so long a journey, and how
wretched my sickness would make Elizabeth, he
spared them this grief by concealing the extent of
my disorder. He knew that I could not have a
more kind and attentive nurse than himself; and,
firm in the hope he felt of my recovery, he did not
doubt that, instead of doing harm, he performed
the kindest action that he could towards them.

But I was in reality very ill ; and surely nothing

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 85

but the unbounded and unremitting attentions of
my friend could have restored me to life. The
form of the monster on whom I had bestowed
existence was for ever before my eyes, and I raved
incessantly concerning him. Doubtless my words
surprised Henry : he at first believed them to be the
wanderings of my disturbed imagination ; but the
pertinacity with which I continually recurred to the
same subject, persuaded him that my disorder indeed
owed its origin to some uncommon and terrible
event.

By very slow degrees, and with frequent relapses,
that alarmed and grieved my friend, 1 recovered. I
remember the first time I became capable of ob-
serving outward objects with any kind of pleasure,
I perceived that the fallen leaves had disappeared,
and that the young buds were shooting forth from
the trees that shaded my window. It was a divine
spring ; and the season contributed greatly to my
convalescence. I felt also sentiments of joy and
affection revive in my bosom ; my gloom disap-
peared, and in a short time I became as cheerful as
before I was attacked by the fatal passion.

*' Dearest Clerval," exclaimed I, ** how kind, how
very good you are to me. This whole winter,
instead of being spent in study, as you promised
yourself, has been consumed in my sick-room.
How shall I ever repay you ? I feel the greatest
remorse for the disappointment of which I have
been the occasion ; but you will forgive me.**

^6 FRANKEKSTHIN ; OR,

" You will repay me entirely, if you do not dis-
compose yourself, but get well as fast as you can ;
and since you appear in such good spirhs, I may
speak tp you on one subject, may I not?"

I trembled. One subject! what could it be?
Could he allude to an object on whom I dared not
«ven think ?

** Compose yourself," said Clerval, who observed
my change of colour, " I will not mention it, if it
4igitates you ; but your father and cousin would be
^ery happy if they received a letter from you in
your own handwriting. They hardly know how ill
you have been, and are uneasy at your long silence."

** Is that all, my dear Henry ? How could you
rsuppose that my first thought wxjuld not fly towards
those dear, dear friends whom I love, and who are
so deserving of my love."

** If this is your present temper, my friend, you
will perhaps be glad to see a letter that has been
lying here some days for you: it is from your
cousin, I believe."

CHAPTER VI.

Clerval then put the following letter into my
hands. It was from my own Elizabeth : —

"My dearest Cousin, — ^You have been ill, very ill,
and even the constant letters of dear kind Henry are not
sufficient to reassure me on your account. You are for-

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 87

bidden to write — to hold a pen ; yet one word from you,
dear Victor, is necessary to calm our apprehensions. For
a long time 1 haye thought that each post would bring
this line, and my persuasions have restrained my uncle
from undertaking a journey to Ingolstadt. I have pre-
vented his encountering the inconveniences and perhaps
dangers of so long a journey; yet how often have I
regretted not being able to perform it myself 1 1 figure
to myself that the task of attending^ on your sick-bed
has devolved on some mercenary old nurse, who could
never guess your wishes, nor minister to them with the
care and aflSection of your poor cousin. Yet that is over
now : Clenal writes that mdeed you are getting better.
I eagerly hope tl:at you will con&nn tlm intelligence
soon in your own handwriting.

** Get well— and return to us. You will find a happy,
cheerful home, and friends who love you dearly. Your
father's health is vigorous, and he asks but to see you, —
but to be assured that you are well ; and not a care will
ever cloud his benevolent countenance. How pleased
YOU would be to remark the improvement of our Ernest I
He is now sixteen, and full of activity and spirit. He is
desirous to be a true Swiss, and to enter into foreign
service ; but we cannot part with him, at least until his
elder brother return to us. My uncle is not pleased with
the idea of a military career in a distant country ; but
Ernest never had your powers of application. He looks
upon study as an odious fetter ; — his time is spent in the
open air, climbing the hills or rowinp: on the lake. I
fear that he will become an idler, unless we yield the
point, and permit him to enter on the profession which
he has selected. .

** Little alteration, except the growth of our dear chil-
dren, has taken place since you left us. The blue lake,
and snow-clad mountains, they never change; — and I
think our placid home, and our contented hearts, are
regulated by the same immutable laws. My trifling
occupations take up my time and amuse me, and I am
rewarded for any exertions by seeing none but happy.

88 FRANKENSTEIN; OR,

kind faces around me. Since you left us, t>ut one change
has taken place in our little household. Do you re-
memher on what occasion Justine Moritz entered our
family ? Probably you do not ; I will relate her histor}',
therefore, in a few words. Madame Moritz, her mother,
was a widow with four children, of whom Justine was
the third. This girl had always been the favourite of
her father ; but, through a strange perversity, her mother
could not endure her, and, after the death of M. Moritz,
treated her very ill. My aunt observed this ; and, when
Justine was twelve years of age, prevailed on her mother
to allow her to live at our house. The republican in-
stitutions of our country have produced simpler and
happier manners than those which prevail in the great
monarchies that surround it. Hence there is less dis-
tinction between the several classes of its inhabitants ; and
the lower orders, being neither so poor nor so despised,
their manners are more refined and moral. A servant in
Geneva does not mean the same thing as a servant in
France and England. Justine, thus received in our family,
learned the duties of a servant; a condition which, in
our fortunate country, does not include the idea of igno-
rance, and a sacrifice of the disunity of a human being.

"Justine, you may rememoer, was a great favourite
of yours ; and I recollect you once remarked, that if you
were in an ill-humour, one glance from Justine could
dissipate it, for the same reason that Ariosto gives con-
cerning the beauty of Angelica — she looked so frank-
hearted and happy. My aunt conceived a great attach-
ment for her, by which she was induced to give her an
education superior to that which she had at first intended.
This benefit was fully repaid ; Justine was the most
grateful little creature in the world : I do not mean that
she made any professions; I never heard one pass her
lips; but you could see by her eyes that she almost
adored her protectress. Although her disposition was
gay, and in many respects inconsiderate, yet she paid the
greatest attention to every gesture of mv aunt. She
thought her the model of all excellence, and endeavoured

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 89

to imitate her phraseology and manners, so that even
now she often reminds me of her.

'* When my dearest aunt died, every one was too much
occupied in their own grief to notice poor Justine, who
had attended her during her illness with the most anxious
affection. Poor Justine was very ill; but other trials
were reserved for her.

*' One by one, her brothers and sister died ; and her
mother, with the exception of her neglected daughter,
was left childless. The conscience of the woman was
troubled; she began to think that the deaths of her
favourites was a judgment from heaven to chastise her
partiality. She was a Roman Catholic; and I believe
tier contessor confirmed the idea which she had conceived.
Accordingly, a few months after your departure for
Ingolstadt, Justine was called home by her repentant
mother. Poor girl! she wept when she quitted our
house; she was much altered since the death of my
aunt; grief had given softness and a winning mildness
to her manners, which had before been remarkable for
vivacity. Nor was her residence at her mother's house
of a nature to restore her gaiety. The poor woman was
very vacillating in her repentance. She sometimes
begged Justine to forgive her unkindness, but much
oftener accused her of having caused the deaths of her
brothers and sister. Perpetual fretting at length threw
Madame Moritz into a decline, which at first increased
her irritability, but she is now at peace for ever. She
died on the first approach of cold weather, at the begin-
ning of this last winter. ' Justine has returned to us ; and
I assure you I love her tenderly. She is verv clever
and gentle, and extremely pretty ; as I mentioned before,
her mien and her expressions continually remind me of
my dear aunt. *

" I must say also a few words to you, my dear cousin,
of little darling William. I wish you could see him ; he
is very tall of his age, with sweet laughing blue eyes,
dark eyelashes, and curling hair. When he smiles, two
little dimples appear on each cheek, which are rosy with

90 FRAKKENSTEIM ; OR>

bealth. He has already had oae or two Httle wtves, bat
Louisa Biron is his favourite, a pretty little girl of five
years of age.

" Now, dear Victor, I dare say you wish to be indulged
in a huk gossip concerning the good people of Geneva.
The pretty Miss Mansfield has ^ready received the con-
gratulatory visits on her approaching marriage with a.
young Englishman, John Melbourne, Esq. Her ugly
sister, Manon, married M. Duvillatd, the rich banker,
last autumn. Your favourite schoolfellow,^ Louis Manoir,
has su&red several misfortunes since the departure of
Oerval from Geneva. But he has already recovered his
spirits, and is reported to be on the poinct of marrying
a \'ery Itvdy pretty Frenchwoman, >iadame Taveraier.
She is a widow, and much older than Manoir ; bat she
is very much admired, and a favourite with everybody.

*' I have written myself into better spirits, dear co«siii ;
bat my anxiety returns upon me as I conclude. Write,
dearest Victoar— one line — one word will be a blessing to
us. Ten thousand thanks to Henry for his kindness, his
a&ction, and his many letters : we are sincerely gnttefnl.
Adieu I my cousin; take care of yourself; and, 1 entreat
you, write 1 "Elizabeth La vemza.

*'Qbnrva, March 18, aj— ."

" Dear, dear Elizabeth I " I exclaimed, when I
had read lier letter, **I will write instantly, and
relieve them from the anxiety they must feel." I
wrote, and this exertion greatly fatigued me ; but
my convalescence had commenced, and proceeded
regularly. In another fortnight I was able to leave
my chamber.

One of my first duties on my recovery was to
introduce Clerval to the several professors of the
university. In doing this^ I underwent a kind of

THE ICODERN FRQMETUEUS. 9S

rough usage, iU befitting the wounds that my mind
ha4 sustained. £v)er since the fatal night, the end
of my labours, and the begmoing of my misfortunes^
I bad conceived a violent antipathy even to the
name of natural pbibsophy. When I was other-
wise quite restored to health, the sight of a chemical
instrument would renew aU the agony of my ner-
vous symptoms. Henry saw this, and had removed
all my apparatus from my view. He had also
changed my apartment; for he perceived that I
had acquired a dislike for the room which had
previously been my laboratory. But these cares of
Cierval were made of no avail when I visited the
professors. M. Waldman inflicted torture when
he praised, with kindness and warmth, the astonish-
ing progress I had made in the sciences. He soon
perceived that I dishkcd the subject ; but not guess-
ing the real cause, he attributed my feelings to
modesty, and changed the sctbject ^om my im-
provement to the science iuelf, with a desire, as I
evidently saw, oi drawing me out. What could I
do ? He meant to please, and he tormented me. I
felt as if he had placed carefully, one by one, in my
view those instruments whidi were to be afterwards
used in putting me to a slow and cruel death. I
wdthed under his words, yet dared not exhibit the
pain I felt. Cierval, whose eyes and feelings were
always quick in discerning tiie sensations of others^
declined the subject, alleging, in excuse, his total
ignorance ; and the conversation took a more

92 FRANKENSTEIN; OR,

general turn. I thanked my friend from my heart,
but I did not speak. I saw plainly that he was
surprised, but he never attempted to draw my
secret from me ; and although I loved him with a
mixture of affection and reverence that knew no
bounds, yet I could never persuade myself to confide
to him that event which was so often present to
my recollection, but which I feared the detail to
another would only impress more deeply.

M. Krempe was not equally docile *, and in my
condition at that time, of almost insupportable
sensitiveness, his harsh blunt encomiums gave me
even more pain than the benevolent approbation
of M. Waldman. " D— n the fellow ! '* cried he ;
"why, M. Clerval, I assure you he has outstript us
all. Ay, stare if you please ; but it is nevertheless
true. A youngster who, but a few years ago,
believed in Cornelius Agrippa as firmly as in the
gospel, has now set himself at the head of the
university ; and if he is not soon pulled down, we
shall all be out of countenance. — Ay, ay," con-
tinued he, observing my face expressive of suffering,
** M. Frankenstein is modest ; an excellent quality
in a young man. Young men should be diffident
of themselves, you know, M. Clerval : I was myself
when young ; but that wears out in a very short
time."

M. Krempe had now commenced an eulogy
on himself, which happily turned the conversation
from a subject that was so annoying to me.

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 9 J

Clerval had never sympathised in my tastes for
natural science ; and his literary pursuits differed
wholly from those which had occupied me. He
came to the university with the design of making
himself complete master of the Oriental languages,
as thus he should open a field for the plan of life
he had marked out for himself. Resolved to pursue
no inglorious career, he turned his eyes toward the
East, as affording scope for his spirit of enterprise.
The Persian, Arabic, and Sanscrit languages en-
gaged his attention, and I was easily induced to
enter on the same studies. Idleness had ever been
irksome to me, and now that I wished to fly from
reflection, and hated my former studies, I felt great
relief in being the fellow-pupil with my friend, and
found not only instruction but consolation in the
works of the Orientalists. I did not, like him,
attempt a critical knowledge of their dialects, for I
did not contemplate making any other use of them
than temporary amusement. I read merely to
understand their meaning, and they well repaid my
labours. Their melancholy is soothing, and their
joy elevating, to a degree I never experienced in
studying the authors of any other country. When
you read their writings, life appears to consist in a
warm sun and a garden of roses, — in the smiles
and frowns of a fair enemy, and the fire that con-
sumes your own heart. How different from the
manly and heroical poetr)' of Greece and Rome !

Summer passed away in these occupations, and

94 FRANKENSTEW; OR,

my return to Geneva was fixed for the latter end of
autttmn ; but being ddayed by severai accidents,
winter and snow arrived, the roads were deemed
impassable, and my jource}^ was retarded until the
ensuing spring. I feh tliis delay very bitteriy ; for
I longed to see my native town and my beloved
friends. My return had only been delayed so long,
from an unwillingness to leave Qerval in a strange
place, before he had become acquainted with
any of its inhabitants. The winter, however, was
spent cheerfully; and ahhough the spring was
uncommonly late, when it came its beauty com-
pensated for its dilatoriness*

The momh of May had already commenced, and
I expected the letter daily which was to fix the date
of my departure, when Henry proposed a pedestrian
tour in the environs of Ingoistadt, that I might bid
a personal farewell to the coumry I had so long in-
habited. I acceded with pleasure to this proposi-
tion : I was fond of exerdse, and Clerval had always
been my favourite companion in the rambles of
this nature that I had taken among the scenes of
my native country.

We passed a fortnight in these perambulatians :
my health and spirits had long been restored, and
they gained additional strength from the salubrious
ail I breathed, the natural incidents of our progress,
and tlie conversation of my friend. Study had
before secluded me from the intercourse of my
fellow-creatures^ and rendered me unsocial; but

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 95

Clerval called forth tlie better feelings of my heart ;
he again taught me to love the aspect of nature, and
the cheerful faces of children. Excellent friend I
how sincerely did you love me, and endeavour to
elevate my mind until it was on a level with your
own ! A selfish pursuit had cramped and narrowed
me, until your gentleness and affection warmed and
opened my senses ; I became the same happy
creature who, a few years ago, loved and beloved
by all,, had no sorrow or care. When happy, in-
animate nature had the power of bestowing on me
the most delightful sensations. A serene sky and.
verdant fields filled me with ecstasy. The present
season was indeed divine ; the flowers of spring
bloomed in the hedges, while those of summer
were ah-eady in bud. I was imdisturbed by
thoughts which during the preceding year had
pressed upon me, notwithstanding my endeavours
to throw them off, with an invincible burden.

Henry rejoiced in ray gaiety, and sincerely sym-
pathised in my feelings; he exerted liiniself to
amosc me, while he expressed the sensations that
filled his soul. The resources of his mind on this
occasion were truly astonishing : his conversation
was full of imagination ; and very often, in imita-
tion of the Persian and Arabic writers, he invented
tales of wonderful fancy and passion. At other
times he repeated my favourite poems, or drew
me out into arguments, which he supported with
great ingenuity.

96 FRANKENSTEIN ; OR,

We returned to our college on a Sunday after-
noon : the peasants were dancing, and every one
we met appeared gay and happy. My own spirits
were high, and I bounded along with feelings of
unbridled joy and hilarity.

CHAPTER VII.

On my return, I found the following letter from
my father : —

"My dear Victor, — You have probably waited im-
patiently for a letter to fix the date of your return to us ;
and I was at first tempted to write only a few lines,
merely mentioning the ciay on which I should expect you.
But that would be a cruel kindness, and I dare not do it.
What would be your surprise, my son, when you expected
a happy and glad welcome, to behold, on tne contrary,
tears and wretchedness ? And how, Victor, can I relate
our misfortune? Absence cannot have rendered you
callous to our joys and griefs; and how shall I inflict
pain on my long absent son ? I wish to prepare you for
the woeful news, but I know it is impossible ; even now
your eye skims over the page, to seek the words which
are to convey to you the horrible tidings.

" William is dead 1— that sweet child, whose smiles de-
lighted and warmed my heart, who was so gentle, yet so
gay ! Victor, he is murdered I

** I will not attempt to console you; but will simply
relate the circumstances of the transaction.

'* Last Thursday (May 7th), I, my niece, and your two
brothers, went to walk in Plainpalais. The evening was
warm and serene, and we prolonged our walk farther than
usual. It was already dusk before we thought of returning ;
aud then we discovered that William and Ernest, who had

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 97

gone on before, were not to be found. We accordingly
rested on a seat until they should return. Presently
Ernest came, and inquired it we had seen^his brother: he
said, that he had been playing with him, that William
had run away to hide himself, and that he vainly sought
for him, and afterwards waited for him a long time, but
that he did not return.

" This account rather alarmed us, and we continued to
search for him until night fell, when Elizabeth conjectured
that he might have returned to the house. He was not
there. We returned again, with torches; for I could not
rest, when I thought that my sweet boy had lost himself,
and was exposed to all the damps and dews of night ;
Elizabeth also suffered extreme anguish. About five in
the morning I discovered my lovely boy, whom the night
before I had seen blooming and active in health, stretched
on the grass livid and motionless : the print of the mur-
derer's Mnger was on his neck.

*'He was conveyed home, and the anguish that was
visible in my countenance betrayed the secret to Elizabeth.
She was very earnest to see the corpse. At first I
attempted to prevent her ; but she persisted, and entering
the room where it lay, hastily examined the neck of the
victim, and clasping her hands exclaimed, 'O God! I
have murdered my darling child I '

" She fainted, and was restored with extreme difficulty.
When she again lived, it was only to weep and sigh. She
told me, that that same evening William had tea^ her to
let him wear a very valuable miniature that she possessed
of your mother. This picture is gone, and was doubtless
the temptation which urged the murderer to the deed.
We have no trace of him at present, although our exer-
tions to discover him are unremitted ; but tney will not
restore my beloved William I

" Come, dearest Victor ; you alone can console Eliza-
beth. She weeps continually, and accuses herself unjustly
as the cause of his death ; her words pierce my heart. We
are all unhappy ; but will not that be an additional motive
for vou, my son, to return and be our comforter? Your

(31) D

98 PRANKEKSTEDJ ; OR,

dear mtnher I Alas, Victor 1 I now say, Thank God she
did not live to witness the cruel, miserable death of her
youngest darling I

" Come, Victor ; not brooding thoughts of vengeance
against the assassin, but with feelings ol peace and gentle-
ness, that will heal, instead of festering, the woimds of
our minds. Enter the house of mourning, my friend,
but wjjth kindness anda&ction for those who lore you,
and not with :hatred for your enemies. — Yottr affectionate
and afflicted father^

" Alphonse Frankenstein.

** Geneva, Jl% 12, 17—."

Clerval, who had watched my countenance as I
read this letter, was surprised to observe the despair
that succeeded to the joy I atiirst expressed on
receiving news from my friends. I threw the letter
on the table, and covered my face with my hands,

" My dear Frankdnstein," exclaimed Hemy,when
he perceived me weep with bitterness, '''^re j-ou
always to be unhappy ? My dear friend, what has
hapipened ? '*

i motioned to him to take up the letter, while
I walked up and down the room in the extremest
agitation. Tears aJso gushed from the eyes of
Clerval, as he read the account of my misfortune.

" I can offer you no consolation, -my friend,"
said he ; ** your disaster is irreparable. What do
you mtend to do ? "

^'To go instantly to Geneva: come with me,
Henry, to order the horses."

During our walk, Qerval endeavoured to say a

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 99

few words of consolation ; he could only express
his heartfelt sy-mpathy. "Poor William 1" said
he, "dear lovely chill, he now sleeps with his
angel mother! Who that had seen him bright
and joj'ous in his young beauty, but must weep
over his untimely loss i To die so miserably ; to
fed the murderer's grasp! How much more a
murderer, that could destroy such radiant inno-
cence I Poor little fcUow I one only consolation
have we ; his friends mourn and weep, but he is
at rest The pang is over, his sufferings are at an
end for ever. A sod covers his gentle form, and
be knows no pain. He am no longer he a subject
for pity ; we must reserve that for his miserable
survivors."

Qerval spoke thus as we htirried through the
streets; the words impressed themselves on my
mind, and I remembered them afterwards in soli-
tude. But now, as soon as Ae horses arriwd, I
hurried imo a cabriolet, and bade farewell to my
friend.

My jonrney was very melancholy. At first I
wished to hurry on, for I longed to console and
sympathise with my loved and sorrowing friends ;
but when I drew near my native town, I slackened
my progress. I could hardly stistain the muhhude
of feelings that aowded into my mind. I passed
through scenes ^miliar to ray youth, but which I
had fflot seen for neariy six years. How altered
eveiydnog might be during that time 1 One

lOO FRANKEKSTEIN ; OR,

sudden and desolating change had taken place ; but
a thousand little circumstances might have by
degrees worked other alteration?, which, although
they were done more tranquilly, might not be the
less decisive. Fear overcame me; I dared not
advance, dreading a thousand nameless evils that
made me tremble, although I was unable to define
them.

I remained two days at Lausanne, in this painful
state of mind. I contemplated the lake : the waters
were placid ; all around was calm ; and the snowy
mountains, ** the palaces of nature," were not
changed. By degrees the calm and heavenly scsne
restored me, and I continued my journey towards
Geneva.

The road ran by the side of the lake, which
became narrower as I approached my native town.
I discovered more distinctly the black sides of Jura,
and the bright summit of Mont Blanc. I wept like
a child. ** Dear mountains 1 my own beautiful
lake I how do you welcome your wanderer? Your
summits are clear ; the sky and lake are blue and
placid. Is this to prognosticate peace, or to mock
at my unhappiness ? "

I fear, my friend, that I shall render myself
tedious by dwelling on these preliminary circum-
stances ; but they were days of comparative happi-
ness, and I think of them with pleasure. My
country, my beloved country ! who but a native
can tell the delight I took in again beholding thy

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 1 01

Streams, thy mountains, and, more than all, thy
lovely lake I

Yet, as I drew nearer home^ grief and fear again
overcame me. Night also closed around ; and
when I could hardly see the dark mountains, I felt
still more gloomily. The picture appeared a vast
and dim scene of evil, and I foresaw obscurely that
I was destined to become the most wretched of
human beings. Alas 1 I prophesied truly, and
failed only in one single circumstance, that in all
the misery I imagined and dreaded, I did not con-
ceive the hundredth part of the anguish I was
destined to endure.

It was completely dark when I arrived in the
environs of Geneva ; the gates of the town were
already shut ; and I was obliged to pass the night
at Secheron, a village at the distance of half a
league from the city. The sky was serene ; and,
as I was unable to rest, I resolved to visit the spot
where my poor William had been murdered. As
I could not pass through the town, I was obliged
to cross the lake in a boat to arrive at Plainpalais.
During this short voyage I saw the lightnings
playing on the summit of Mount Blanc in the most
beautiful figures. The storm appeared to approach
rapidly ; and, on landing, I ascended a low hill, that
I n)ight observe its progress. It advanced; the
heavens were clouded, and I soon felt the rain
coming slowly in large drops, but its violence
quickly increased.

102 FRANKENSTEIN; OR^

I quitted my seat, and walked on, although the
darkness and storm increased every minute, and the
thunder burSt with a terrifi-c cmsh, over my head.
It. was echoed feom Saleve, die Juras^and the Alps
6£ Savoy y vivid flashes of lightning dazzled my
eyes, illuminating the lake, making it ^pear like a
vast sheet of ftre *,. then for an instant everything
seemed of a pitchy darkness^ until the eye recovered
itself from die preceding flash. The stormy as is
oftea the case in Switzerland, appeared at once ia
varioOfS parts of the heavens. The most violent
storm himg exactly north of the town, over that
part of the lake which lies between the promootory
of Bdrive and the v^lage of Cop^t. Another storm
enliglitened Jora with faint flashes j and another
darkened and sometimes disclosed the Mdle,. a
peaked mountain to the east of the lake.

While I watched the tempest, so beautiful yet
terrific,! wandered on with a hasty step. Tliis
noble war im the sky elevated my spirits ; I clasped
my liands, and exclaimed aloud, ^^ William, dear
angel ! diis is tliy funeral,, the thy dirge ! " As I
said these vrards, I percei\'ed in the gloom a figure
which stole firom beliind a clump of trees near me ;
I stood fixed, gazing intently : I could not be mis-
taken. A flash of lightning illuminated the objea,
and discovered its shape plainly to me ; its gigantic
stature,and the deformity of its aspect, more hideous
than belongs to humanity, instantly informed me
that it was the wretch, the filthy daemon, to whom

THE MODERN PROStETflEUS. 10 3

I had gtven life. What did he there? Could he
be (I shuddered at the conception) the murderer
of my brother ? No sooner did that idea cross my
imagination, than I became convinced of its truth v
my teetit chattered^ and I was forced to lean against
a tree for support. The figure passed me quickly,
aad I lost it in the gloom. Nothing in htmian
sliape could have destroyed that fair child. He
was the murderer ! I coiild not doubt it. The
mere presence of the idea was an irresistible proof
of tbe fact. I thought o£ pursuing the devil j but
h wookL have been in vain, ias another flash dis-
covered him tio me hanging among die rocks of
the neady perpendicular ascent of Monr Sa^ve^ a
hiU that bounds Plainpalais on die sootk. He soon
reached the summit^ and disappeared.

I remained mottoaless. The thimder ceased;
but the rain still continued, and. the^ scene wa&
envetoped in an unpenetrable darkness. I revolved
in my mind the events which I had until nowsought
to forget : the whole train of my progress towards
the creation \ the appearance of the work of my
own hands alive at my bedside; its departure.
Two years had now nearly elapsed since the night
on which he first received life ; and was this his
first crime? Alas! I had turned loose iatjo the
world a depraved wretch^ whose del%ht was ia
carnage and misery ; had he not murdered my
brother?

No one can conceive the angubh I suB^red duringr

104 l^HANKENSTEIK ; OR,

the remainder of the night, which 1 spent, cold and
wet, in the open air. But I did not feel the in-
convenience of the weather ; my imagination was
busy in scenes of evil and despair. I considered
the being whom I had cast among mankind, and
endowed >\ath the will and power to effect purposes
of horror, such as the deed which he had now done,
nearly in the light of my own vampire, my own
spirit let loose from the grave, and forced to destroy
all that was dear to me.

Day dawned ; and I directed my steps towards
the town. The gates were open, and 1 hastened
to my father's house. My first thought was to
discover what I knew of the murderer, and cause
instant pursuit to be made. But I paused when I
reflected on the story that I had to tell. A being
whom I myself had formed, and endued with life,
had met me at midnight among the precipices of
an inaccessible mountain. I remembered also the
nervous fever with which I had been seized just at
the time that I dated my creation, and which would
give an air of delirium to a tale otherwise so utterly
improbable. I well knew that if any other had
communicated such a relation to me, I should have
looked upon it as the ravings of insanity. Besides,
the strange nature of the animal would elude all
pursuit, even if I were so far credited as to persuade
my relatives to commence it. And then of what
use would be pursuit ? Who could arrest a creature
capable of scaling the overhanging sides of Mont

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 10$

Sal^ve ? These reflections determined me, and I
resolved to remain silent.

It was about five in the morning when I entered
my father's house. I told the servants not to
disturb the family, and went into the library to
attend their usual hour of rising.

Six years had elapsed, passed as a dream but for
one indelible trace, and I stood in the same place
where I had last embraced my father before my
departure for Ingolstadt. Beloved and venerable
parent ! He still remained to me. I gazed on the
picture of my mother, which stood over the mantel-
piece. It was an historical subject, painted at my
father's desire, and represented Caroline Beaufort
in an agony of despair, kneeling by the coffin of
her dead father. Her garb was rustic, and her cheek
pale ; but there was an air of dignity and beauty,
that hardly permitted the sentiment of pity. Below
this picture was a miniature of William ; and my
tears flowed when I looked upon it. While I was
thus engaged, Ernest entered ; he had heard me
arrive, and hastened to welcome me. He expressed
a sorrowful delight to see me : " Welcome, my
dearest Victor," said he. ** Ah ! I wish you had
come three months ago, and then you would have
found us all joyous and delighted. You come to
us now to share a misery which nothing can alle-
viate ; yet your presence will, I hope, revive our
father, who seems sinking under his misfortune ;
and your persuasions will induce poor Elizabeth to

I06 FRANKENSTEIN; OR,

cease her vain and tormenting self-accusations.
— Poor William ! he was our darling and our
pride ! "

Tears, unrestrained, fell from my brother's eyes ;
41 sense of mortal agony crept over my frame.
Before, I had only imagined the wretchedness of
my desolated home ; the reality came on me as a
new, and a not less terrible, disaster. I tried to
calm Ernest ; I inquired more minutely concerning
my father, and her I named my cousin.

*•' She most of all," said Ernest, *^ requires con-
solation ; slie accused herself of having caused the
death of my brother, and that made her very
wretched. But since tiie murderer has been dis-
covered"

" The murderer discovered ! Good God ! how
can that be ? who could attempt to pursue him ? It
is impossible •, one might as well try to overtake
the winds, or confine a mountain^stream with a
straw. I saw liim too ; he was free last night ! "

" I do not know what you mean," replied my
brotlier, in accents of wonder, ** but to us the dis-
covery we have made completes our misery. No
•one would believe it at first ; and even now Eliza-
beth will not be convinced,, notwithstanding all the
-evidence. Indeed, who would credit that Justine
Moritz, who was so amiable, and fond of all the
family, could suddenly become capable of so fright-
ful, so appalling a crime ? "

"Justine Moritz I Poor, poor girl, is she the

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. IO7

accused ? But it is wrongfully ; ever}' one Knows
that ; no one believes it, surely, Ernest ?"

" No one did at first : but several circumstances
came out, that have almost forced conviction upon
us; and her own behaviour has been so confused,
as to add to the evidence of facts a weight that, I
fear, leaves no hope for doubt. But she will be
tried to-day, and you will then hear all."

He related that, the morning on which the mur-
der of poor William had been discovered, Justine
had been taken ill, and confined to her bed for
several day^. During this interval, one of the ser-
vants, happening to examine the apparel she had
worn on the night of the murder, had discovered in
her pocket the picture of my mother, which had
been judged to be the temptation of the murderer.
The servant instantly showed it to one of the others,
who, without saying a word to any of the family,
went to a magistrate ; and, upon their deposition,
Justine was apprehended. On being charged with
the fact, the poor girl confirmed the suspicion in a
great measure by her extreme confusion of manner.

This was a strange tale, but it did not shake my
faith; and I replied earnestly, "You are all mis-
taken ; I know the murderer. Justine, poor, good
Justine, is innocent,"

At that instant my father entered. I saw un-
happiness deeply impressed on his countenance, but
he endeavoured to wekome me cheerfully ; and»
after we had exchanged our mournful greeting,

I08 FRANKENSTEIN J OB,

woulci have introduced some other topic than that
of our disaster, had not Ernest exclaimed, ** Good
God, papa ! Victor says that he knows who was
the murderer of poor WilHam."

" We do also, unfortunately," replied my father ;
" for indeed I had rather have been for ever ignorant
than have discovered so much depravity and in-
gratitude in one I valued so highly."

" My dear father, you are mistaken ; Justine is
innocent."

"If she is, God forbid that she should suffer as
guilty. She is to be tried to-day, and I hope, I
sincerely hope, that she will be acquitted."

This speech calmed me. I was firmly convinced
in my own mind that Justine, and indeed every
human being, was guiltless of this murder. I had
no fear, therefore, that any circumstantial evidence
could be brought forward strong enough to convict
her. My tale was not one to announce publicly ;
its astounding horror would be looked upon as
madness by the vulgar. Did any one indeed exist,
except I, the creator, who would believe, unless
liis senses convinced him, in the existence of the
living monument of presumption and rash ignorance
which I had let loose upon the world ?

We were soon joined by Elizabeth. Time had
altered her since I last beheld her ; it had endowed
her with loveliness surpassing the beauty of her
childish years. There was the same candour, the
same vivacity, but it was allied to an expression

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. IO9

more full of sensibility and intellect She welcomed
me with the greatest affection. " Your arrival, my
dear cousin," said she, "fills me with hope. You
perhaps will find some means to justify my poor
guiltless Justine. Alas ! who is safe, if she be con-
victed of crime ? I rely on her innocence as certainly
as I do upon my own. Our misfortune is doubly
hard to us; we have not only lost that lovely
darling boy, but this poor girl, whom I sincerely
love, is to be torn away by even a worse fate. If
she is condemned, I never shall know joy more.
But she will not, I am sure she will not •, and then
I shall be happy again, even after the sad death of
my little William."

"She is innocent, my Elizabeth,*' said I, ** and
that shall be proved ; fear nothing, but let your
spirits be cheered by the assurance of her acquittal."

**How kind and generous you are I everyone
else believes in her guilt, and that made me
wretched, for I knew that it was impossible : and
to see every one else prejudiced in so deadly a
manner rendered me hopeless and despairing."
She wept.

*' Dearest niece," said my father, **dry your
tears. If she is, as you believe, innocent, rely on
the justice of our laws, and the activity with which
1 shall prevent the slightest shadow of partiality."

no FRANKENSTEIN; OR,

CHAPTER VIII.

We passed a few sad hours, until eleven o'clock,
when the trial was to commence. My father and
the rest of the family being obliged to attend as
witnesses, I accompanied them to the court. During
the whole of this wretched mockery of justice i
suffered living torture. It was to be decided,
whether the result of my curiosity and lawless
devices would cause the death of two of my fellow-
beings '. one a smiling babe, full of innocence and
joy ; the other far more dreadfully murdered, with
every aggravation of infamy that could make the
murder memorable in horror. Justine also was a
girl of merit, and possessed qualities which promised
to render her life happy : now all was to be oblite-
rated in an ignominious grave ; and I the cause f
A thousand times rather would I have confessed
myself guilty of the crime ascribed to Justine ; but
I was absent when it was committed, and such a
declaration would have been considered as the
ravings of a madman, and would not have ex-
culpated her who suffered through me.

The appearance of Justine was calm. She was
dressed in mourning ; and her countenance, always
engaging, was rendered, by the solemnity of her
feelings, exquisitely beautiful. Yet she appeared
confidentininnocence, and did not tremble, although
gazed on and execrated by thousands ; for all the
kindness which her beauty might otherwise have

THE MODERX PROMETHEUS. Ill

excited, was obliterated in the minds of the specta-
tors by the imagination of the enormity she was
supposed to have committed. She was tranquil,
yet her tranquillity was evidently constrained ; and
as her confusion had before been adduced as a
proof of her guilt, she worked up her mind to an
appearance of courage. When she entered the
court, she threw her eyes round it, and quickly
discovered where we were seated. A tear seemed
to dim her eye when she saw us ; but she quickly
recovered herself, and a look of sorrowful ^ection
seemed to attest her utter guiltlessness.

The trial began ; and, after the advocate against
her had stated the charge, several witnesses were
called. Several strange facts combined against her,
which might have staggered any one who had not
such proof of her innocence as I had. She had been
out the "\\4iole of the night on which the murder
had been committed, and towards morning had been
perceived by a market-woman not far from the spot
where the body of the murdered child had been
afterwards found. The woman asked her what
she did there ; but she looked very strangely, and
only returned a confused and unintelligible answer^
She returned to the kouse about eight o'clock ; and^
when one inquired where she had passed the night,
she replied that she had been looking for the child,,
and demanded earnestly if anything had .been heard
concerning him. When shown the body, she fell
into violem hysterics, and kept her bed for several

1 1 2 FRANKENSTEIN ; OR,

days. The picture was then produced, which the
servant had found in her pocket ; and when Eliza-
beth, in a fahering voice, proved that it was the
same which, an hour before the child had been
missed, she had placed round his neck, a murmur
of horror and indignation filled the court.

Justine was called on for her defence. As the
trial had proceeded, her countenance had altered.
Surprise, horror, and misery were strongly ex-
pressed. Sometimes she struggled with her tears ;
but, when she was desired to plead, she collected
her powers, and spoke, in an audible, although
variable voice.

"God knows," she said, **how entirely I am
innocent. But I do not pretend that my protesta-
tions should acquit me : I rest my innocence on a
plain and simple explanation of the facts which
have been adduced against me: and I hope the
character I have always borne will incline my
judges to a favouraWe interpretation, where any
circumstance appears doubtful or suspicious."

She then related that, by the permission of Eliza-
beth, she had passed the evening of the night on
which the murder had been committed at the house
of an aunt at Ch^ne, a village situated at about a
league from Geneva. On her return, at about
nine o'clock, she met a man, who asked her if she
had seen anything of the child who was lost She
was alarmed by this account, and passed several
hours in looking for him, when the gates of Geneva

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. II3

were shut, and she was forced to remain several
hours of the night in a bam belonging to a cottage,
being unwilling to call up the inhabitants, to whom
she was well known. Most of the night she spent
here watching ; towards morning she believed that
she slept for a few minutes ; some steps disturbed
her, and she awoke. It was dawn, and she quitted
her asylum, that she might again endeavour to find
my brother. If she had gone near the spot where
his body lay, it was without her knowledge. That
she had been bewildered when questioned by the
market-woman was not surprising, since she had
passed a sleepless night, and the fate of poor William
was yet uncertain. Concerning the picture she
could give no account.

** I know," continued the unhappy victim, " how
heavily and fatally this one circumstance weighs
against me, but I have no power of explaining it ;
and when I have expressed my utter ignorance, I
am only left to conjecture concerning the proba-
bilities by which it might have been placed in my
pocket. But here also I am checked. I believe
that I have no enemy on earth, and none surely
would have been so wicked as to destroy me
wantonly. Did the murderer place it there? I
know of no opportunity afforded him for so doing ;
or, if I had, why should he have stolen the jewel,
to part with it again so soon ?

** I commit my cause to the justice of my judges,
yet I see no room for hope. I beg permission to

114 FRANKENSTEIN; 0R,

have a few witnesses examined concerning my
character ; and if their testimony shall not over-
weigh my supposed guilt, I must be condemned,
although I would pledge my salvation on my
innocence."

Several wimesses were called, who had known
her for many years, and they spoke well of her ;
but fear, and hatred of the crime of which they
supposed her guilty, rendered them timorous, and
unwilling to come forward. Elizabeth saw even
this last resource, her excellent dispositions and
irreproachable conduct, about to fail the accused,
when, although violently agitated, she desired per-
mission to address the court.

" I am," said she, " the cousin of the unhappy
child who was murdered, or rather his sister, for
I was educated by, and have lived with his parents
ever since, and even long before, his birth. It may
therefore be judged indecent in me to come forward
on this occasion ; but when I see a fellow-creature
about to perish through the cowardice of her pre-
tended friends, I wish to be allowed to speak, that
I may say what I know of her character. I am
well acquainted with the accused. I have lived in
the same house with her, at one time for five,
and at another for nearly two years. During all
that period she appeared to me the most amiable
and benevolent of human creatures. She nursed
Madame Frankenstein, my aunt, in her last illness,
with the greatest affection and care ; and afterwards

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 1 1 j.

attended her own motlier during a tedious illness^
in a naanner that excited the admiration of all who
knew her ; after which she again lived in my unde's
house, where she was beloved by all the family.
She was warmly attached to the child who is now
dead, and acted towards him like a most aflfectionate
motlier. For my own part, I do not hesitate to
say, that, notwithstanding all the evidence produced
against her, I believe and rely on her perfect inno-
cence. She had no temptation for such an action :
as to the bauble on which the chief proof rests, if
she had earnestly desired it, I should have wil-
lingly given it to her; so much do I esteem and
value her."

A murmur of approbation followed Elizabeth's
sunple and powerful appeal ; but it was excited by
her generous interference, and not in favour of poor
Justine, on whom the public indignation was turned
with renewed violence, dialing her with the
bladkest ingratitude. She herself wept as Elizabeth
spoke, but she did not answer. My own agitation-
and anguish was extreme during the whole trial.
I believed in her innocence ; I knew it. Could the
daemon, who had (I did not for a minute doubt)
murdered my brother, also in his hellish sport have:
betrayed tlie innocent to death and ignominy ! I
could not sustain the horror of my situation ; and
when I perceived that the popular voice, and the
countenances of the judges, had already condemned
my unhappy victim, I rushed out of the court ia

Il6 FRANKENSTEIN; OR,

agon)'. The tortures of the accused did not equal
mine; she was sustained by innocence, but the
fangs of remorse tore my bosom, and would not
forego their hold.

I passed a night of unmingled wretchedness. In
the morning I went to the court; my lips and
throat were parched. I dared not ask the fatal
question ; but I was known, and the officer guessed
the cause of my visit. The ballots had been
thrown; they were all black, and Justine was
condemned.

I cannot pretend to describe what I then felt. I
had before experienced sensations of horror ; and
I have endeavoured to bestow upon them adequate
expressions, but words cannot convey an idea of
the heart-sickening despair that I then endured.
The person to whom I addressed myself added,
that Justine had already confessed her guilt. " That
evidence," he observed, " was hardly required in
so glaring a case, but I am glad of it ; and, indeed,
none of our judges like to condemn a criminal upon
circumstantial evidence, be it ever so decisive."

This was strange and unexpected intelligence ;
what could it mean ? Had my eyes deceived me ?
and was I really as mad as the whole world would
believe me to be, if I disclosed the object of my
suspicions? I hastened to return home, and
Elizabeth eagerly demanded the result.

"My cousin," replied I, *'it is decided as you
may have expected ; all judges had rather tliat ten

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. II7

innocent should suffer, than that one guihy should
escape. But she has confessed."

This was a dire blow to poor Elizabeth, who
had relied with firmness upon Justine's innocence.
" Alas ! " said she, ** how shall I ever again believe
in human goodness ? Justine, whom I loved and
esteemed as my sister, liow could she put on those
smiles of innocence only to betray? her mild eyes
seemed incapable of any severity or guile, and yet
she has committed a murder."

Soon after we heard that the poor victim had
expressed a desire to see my cousin. My father
wished her not to go ; but said, that he left it to
her own judgment and feelings to decide. ** Yes,"
said Elizabeth, " I will go, although she is guilty j
and you, Victor, shall accompany me: I cannot
go alone." The idea of this visit was tormre to
me, yet I could not refuse.

We entered the gloomy prison-chamber, and
beheld Justine sitting on some straw at the farther
end ; her hands were manacled, and her head rested
on her knees. She rose on seeing us enter ; and
when we were left alone with her, she threw her-
self at the feet of Elizabeth, weeping bitterly. My
cousin wept also.

*' O Justine I " said she, ** why did you rob me
of my last consolation ? I relied on your inno-
cence ; and although I was then very wretched, I
was not so miserable as I am now."

" And do you also believe that I am so very, very

3 1 8 FRANKENSTEIN; OR,

wicked? Do you also join with my enemies to
-crush me, to condemn me as a murderer?" Her
voice was suffocated witii sobs.

'* Rise, my poor girl,*' said Elizabeth, ** why do
you kneel, if you are innocent ? I am not one of
your enemies ; I believed you guiltless, notwith-
standing every evidence, until I heard that you had
yourself declared your guilt. That report, you
.^ay, is false; and be assured, dear Justine, that
nothing can shake my confidence in you for a
inoment, but your own confession."

" I did confess ; but I confessed a lie. I con-
fessed, that I might obtain absolution ; but now
that falsehood lies heavier at my heart than all my
•other sins. The God of heaven forgive me ! Ever
since I was condemned, my confessor has besieged
me; he threatened and menaced, until I almost
began to think that I was the monster tiiat he said
I was. He threatened excommunication and hell-
fire in my last moments, if I continued obdurate.
Dear lady, I had none to support me ; all looked
on me as a wretch doomed to ignominy and
perdition. What could I do ? In an evfl hour I
subscribed to a lie; and now only am I truly
miserable."

She paused, weeping, and then continued — '* I
thought with horror, my sweet lady, that you
should believe your Justine, whom your blessed
aunt had so highly honoured, and whom you
ioved^ was a creature capable of a crime which-

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. II9

none but the devil himself could have perpetrated.
Dear William ! dearest blessed child ! I soon
shall see you again in heaven, where we shall all
be happy ; and that consoles me, going as I am to
suffer ignominy and death."

*'0 Justine! forgive me for having for one
moment distrusted you. Why did you confess?
But do not mourn, dear giri. Do not fear. I will
proclaim, I will prove your innocence, I will meh
the stony hearts of your enemies by my tears and
prayers. You shall not die ! — You, my playfellow,
my companion, my sister, perish on the scaffold I
No ! no ! I never could survive so horrible a
misfortune."

Justine shook her head mournfully. " I do not
fear to die," she said ; '* that pang is past God
raises ray weakness, and gives me courage to endure
tiie worst. I leave a sad and bitter world ; and if
you remember me, and think of me as of one
unjustly condemned, I am resigned to the fate
awaiting me. Learn from rae, dear lady, to submit
in patience to the will of Heaven ! "

During the conversation I had retired to a comer
of the prison-room, where I could conceal the horrid
anguish that possessed me. Despair ! Who dared
talk of tiiat ? The poor victim, who on the morrow
was to pass the awful boundary between life and
death, felt not as I did, such deep and bitter agony.
I gnashed my teeth, and ground them together,
uttering a groan that came from my inmost souL

120 FRANKENSTEIN; OR,

Justine started. When she saw who it was, she
approached me, and said, ** Dear sir, you are very-
kind to visit me ; you, I hope, do not believe that
I am guilty ? *'

I could not answer. '* No, Justine," said Eliza-
beth ; ** he is more convinced of your innocence
than I was ; for even when he heard that you had
confessed, he did not credit it."

"I truly thank him. In these last moments
I feel the sincerest gratitude towards those who
think of me with kindness. How sweet is the
affection of others to such a wretch as I am i It
removes more than half my misfortune ; and I feel
as if I could die in peace, now that my innocence is
acknowledged by you, dear lady, and your cousin."

Thus the poor sufferer tried to comfort others
and herself. She indeed gained the resignation
she desired. But I, the true murderer, felt the
never-dying worm alive in my bosom, which
allowed of no hope or consolation. Elizabeth
also wept, and was unhappy ; but hers also was
the misery of innocence, which, like a cloud that
passes over the fair moon, for a while hides but
cannot tarnish its brightness. Anguish and despair
had penetrated into the core of my heart ; I bore
a hell within me, which nothing could extinguish.
We stayed several hours with Justine : and it was
with great difficulty that Elizabeth could tear her-
self away. " I wish," cried she, " that I were to die
with you ; I cannot live in this world of misery."

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 121

Justine assumed an air of cheerfulness, while she
with difficulty repressed her bitter tears. She em-
braced Elizabeth, and said, in a voice of half-sup-
pressed emotion, "FareweU, sweet lady, dearest
Elizabeth, my beloved and only friend ; may Heaven,
in its bounty, bless and preserve you ; may this be
the last misfortune that you will ever suffer I Live,
and be happy, and make others so."

And on the morrow Justine died. Elizabeth's
heartrending eloquence failed to move the judges
from their settled conviction in the criminality of
the saintly sufferer. My passionate and indignant
appeals were lost upon them. And when I received
their cold answers, and heard the harsh unfeeling
reasoning of these men, my purposed avowal died
away on my lips. Thus I might proclaim myself
a madman, but not revoke the sentence passed upon
my vsrretched victim. She perished on the scaffold
as a murderess I

From the tortures of my own heart, I turned to
contemplate the deep and voiceless grief of my
Elizabeth. This also was my doing I And my
father's woe, and the desolation of that late so
smiling home — all was the work of my thrice-
accursed hands! Ye weep, unhappy ones; but
these are not your last tears I Again shall you
raise the funeral wail, and the sound of your
lamentations shall again and again be heard 1
Frankenstein, your son, your kinsman, your early,
much-loved friend *, he who would spend each vital

122 FRAKKEKSTHIN ; OR,

drop of blood for your sokes— who has no tiiought
nor sense of jojv except as it is mirrored also in
your dear countenances: — who would fill, the air
with blessings, and spend bis life in serving yoa —
he bids you weep — to shed countless tears; happy
beyond his hopes, if thus inexorable fate be satisfied,
and if the destruction pause before the peace of the
grave have succeeded to your sad torments !

Thus spoke my prophetic souly as, torn by re-
morse, horror, and despair, I beheid those: I laved
spend vain sorrow upon the graves of William, and
Justine, the first haj^s victims to my unhailowsd
arts.

CHAPTER IX.

NoTHQSG is. nnore painfiil to the human mind^
than, after the feelings have been worked up by a
quick succession of events, die dead calmness of
inaction and certainty which follows^ and deprives
thffi. soul' both of hope aiid fear. Justine died^ she
rested ^ and I was alive. The blood flowed feedy
in my veins, but a weight of despair and remorse
pressed on my heart, which nothing could remove^
Sleep fled from my eyes ; I wandered like an evil
spirit, fior I had committed deeds of mischief beyond
description horriblcy and more, much more (I per-
suaded raysdfX was yet behind. Yet my heart
ovcrflawed whh kindness, and the love of virtue;.

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. I23

I had begun life with benevolent intentioos, and
thirsted for the moment when I should put them
in practice, and make myself useful to mj fellow-
beings. Now all was blasted: instead of that
serenity of conscience, which allowed me to look
back upon the past with self-satisfacdon,. and frona
thence to gather promise of new hopes, I was seized
by remorse and the sense; of guilt,, which hurried
me away to a helL of intense toittoes, such as no
language can describe.

This state of mind preyed upon my health, winch
had perhaps never entirely recovered from tlic first
sliock it had sustained. I shunned the face of man -y
all sound of )oy or con^lacency was torture to me ;.
solitude was ray only consolation — deep, dark,
deathlike soUtudie.

My fatlier observed with pain the aheration
perceptible in my disposition and hatntSy and en^
deavoured by arguments deduced from the feelings,
of his serene conscience and guiltless life, to inspire
me with fortitude, and awaken in me the courage
to dispel the dairk cloud which brooded over me.
** Do you think, Victor," said he, *' that I do not
suffer also ? No one could love a child more than
1 loved your brother ;" (tears came into his e^'es as
he spoke ; ) *' but is it not a duty to the sorvivors,^
that we sliould refrain from augmenting their un^
happiness by an appearance of immoderate giief^
It is also a duty owed to yourself ; for excessive
sorrow prevents improvement or enjoyment, or

124 FRANKENSTEIN; OR^

even the discharge of daily usefulness, without
which no man is fit for society."

This advice, although good, was totally inappli-
cable to my case ; I should have been the first to
hide my grief, and console my friends, if remorse
had not mingled its bitterness, and terror its alarm
with my other sensations. Now I could only
answer my father with a look of despair, and en-
deavour to hide myself from his view.

About this time we retired to our house at
Belrive. This change was particularly agreeable
to me. The shutting of the gates regularly at ten
o'clock, and the impossibility of remaining on the
lake after that hour, had rendered our residence
within the walls of Geneva very irksome to me.
I was now free. Often, after the rest of the family
had retired for the night, I took the boat, and passed
many hours upon the water. Sometimes, with
my sails set, I was carried by the wind ; and some-
times, after rowing into the middle of the lake, I
left the boat to pursue its own course, and gave
way to my own miserable reflections. I was often
tempted, when all was at peace around me, and I
the only unquiet thing that wandered restless in a
scene so beautiful and heavenly — if I except some
bat, or the frogs, whose harsh and interrupted
croaking was heard only when I approached the
shore — often, I say, I was tempted to plunge into
the silent lake, that the waters might close over me
and my calamities for ever. But I was restrained,

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 125

when I thought of the heroic and suffering Elizabeth,
whom I tenderly loved, and whose existence was
bound up in mine. I thought also of my father,
and surviving brother: should I by my base desertion
leave them exposed and unprotected to the malice
of the fiend whom I had let loose among them ?

At these moments I wept bitterly, and wished
that peace would revisit my mind only that I might
afford them consolation and happiness. But that
could not be. Remorse extinguished every hope.
I had been the author of unalterable evils ; and I
lived in daily fear, lest the monster whom I had
created should perpetrate some new wickedness.
I had an obscure feeling that all was not over, and
that he would still commit some signal crime,
which by its enormity should almost efface the
recollection of the past. There was always scope
for fear, so long as anything I loved remained
behind. My abhorrence of this fiend cannot be
conceived. When I thought of him, I gnashed
my teeth, my eyes became inflamed, and I ardently
wished to extinguish that life which I had so
thoughtlessly bestowed. When I reflected on his
crimes and malice, my hatred and revenge burst
all bounds of moderation. I would have made a
pilgrimage to the highest peak of the Andes, could
I, when there, have precipitated him to their base.
I wished to see him again, that I might wreak the
utmost extent of abhorrence on his head, and avenge
the deaths of William and Justine.

126 FRANKENSTEIN; OR,

Out house was the laouse of mourning. My
father's health was deeply Shaken by the horror of
riie recent events. EKzabeih was sad and despond-
ing ; she oo longer took ^delight in her ordmary
occupations ; all pleasure seemed to her sacrilege
toward the xlead ; eternal woe and tears she then
thought was the just trrbnte she should pay to
innocence so blasted and destroyed. She was no
longer lihat happy creature, who in earlier youth
wandered whh me on the banks of the lake, and
talked with ecstasy of our future prospects. The
first of those sorrows which are sent to wean us
froni the earth, had visited her, and its dimming
influence quenched her dearest smiles.

^' When I reflect, my dear cousin," said she,
^* on the miserable death of Justine Moritz, I no
lomger see the world and its works as they before
appeared to me. Before, I looked upon rhe
accounts of vice and injustice, that I read in books
or heard from odiers, as tales of ancient dsys, or
imaginary evils ; at least they were remote, and
more familiar to reason than to the imagination ;
bait now misery lias come liome, and men appear
to ane as monsters thirsting for each other's Wood.
Yet I :am certainly unjust. Everybody believed
that poor girl to be guilty ; and if she could have
committed the crime for which she suflered,
assuredly she would have been the most depraved
of human creatures. For the sake of a few jewels,
to have murdered the son of her bene£actor and

THE MODERN PHQMETHEUS. 1 27

friend, a child whom she had nursed from its
hinhg and appeared to love as if it had been her
own ! I could not consent to the death of any
human being ; but certainly I should have thought
such a creature im£t to remain in the society of
men. But she was innocettt. I know, I feel she
was innocent ; you are of the same opinbn, and
that confirms me. Alas 1 Victor, when falsehood
can look so like the truth, who can assure them-
selves of certain happiness ? I feel as if I were
walking on the ^gQ of a precipice, towards wJiicli
thousands are <:rowding^ and endeavouring to
plunge me into the abyss, William and Justine
were assassinated, and the anurderer escapes ; he
walks about the worid free^ and perhaps respected.
But even if I were condemned to suffer xm the
scaffold lor the same crimes, I would not diange
places with sucli a wretch."

I listened to this discourse with die extremest
agony. I, not in -deed, but in effect, was the true
murderer. Elizabeth read my anguish in my
countenance, and kindly taking my hand, said —
'*My dearest friend, you must calm yourself.
These events have affected me, God knows how
-deeply; but I am not so wretched as you are.
There is an expr>ession of despair, and sometimes
of revenge, in your countenance, that makes me
tremble. Dear Victor, banish these dark passions.
Remember the friends around you, who centre all
their liopes in you. Have we lost the power of

128 FRANKENSTEIN; OR,

rendering you happy ? Ah 1 while we love— while
we afe true to each other, here in this land of peace
and beauty, your native country, we may reap every
tranquil blessing, — what can disturb our peace ?"

And could not such words from her whom I
fondly prized before every other gift of fortune,
suffice to chase away the fiend that lurked in my
heart ? Even as she spoke I drew near to her, as
if in terror ; lest at that very moment the destroyer
had been near to rob me of her.

Thus not the tenderness of friendship, nor the
beauty of earth, nor of heaven, could redeem my
soul from woe : the very accents of love were in-
effectual. I was encompassed by a cloud which no
beneficial influence could penetrate. The wounded
deer dragging its fainting limbs to some untrodden
brake, there to gaze upon the arrow which had
pierced it, and to die — was but a type of me.

Sometimes I could cope with the sullen despair
that overwhelmed me : but sometimes the whirl-
wind passions of my soul drove me to seek, by
bodily exercise and by change of place, some relief
from my intolerable sensations. It was during an
access of this kind that I suddenly left my home,
and bending my steps towards the near Alpine
valleys, sought in the magnificence, the eternity of
such scenes, to forget myself and my ephemeral,
because human, sorrows. My wanderings were
directed towards the valley of Chamounix. I had
visited it frequently during my boyhood. Six years

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 1 29

had passed since then : / was a wreck — but nought
had changed in those savage and enduring scenes.
I performed the first part of my journey on
horseback. I afterwards hired a mule, as the
more sure-footed,«and least liable to receive injury
on these rugged roads. The weather was fine :
it was about the middle of the month of August,
nearly two months after the death of Justine ; that
miserable epoch from which I dated all my woe.
The weight upon my spirit was sensibly lightened
as I plunged yet ^Jeeper in the ravine of Arve.
The immense mountains and precipices that over-
hung me on every side — the sound of the river
raging among the rocks, and the dashing of the
waterfalls around spoke of a power mighty as
Omnipotence — and I ceased to fear, or to bend
before any being less almighty than that which
had created and ruled the elements, here displayed
in their most terrific guise. Still, as I ascended
higher, the valley assumed a more magnificent
and astonishing character. Ruined castles hanging
on the precipices of piny mountains ; the impe-
tuous Arve, and cottages every here and there
peeping forth from among the trees, formed a
scene of singular beauty. But it was augmented
and rendered sublime by the mighty Alps, whose
white and shining pyramids and domes towered
above all, as belonging to another earth, the habi-
tations of another race of beings.

I passed the bridge of P^lissier, where the ravine,
(31) R

130 FRANKENSTEIN; OR,

which the river forms, opened before mc, and I
began to ascend the mountain that overiiangs it
Soon after I entered the valley of Chamounix. This
valley is more wonderful and sublime, but not so
beautiful and picturesque, as thatof Servox, through
which I had just passed. The high and snowy
mountains were its immediate boundaries ; but I
saw no more ruined castles and fertile fields.
Immense glaciers approach the road ; I heard the
rumbling thunder of the falling avalanche, and
marked the smoke of its passage. Mont Blanc, the
supreme and magnificent Mont Blanc, raised itself
from the surrounding aiguilles, and its tremendous
ddme overlooked the valley. ,

A tingling long-lost sense of pleasure often came
across me during this journey. Some turn in the
road, some new object suddenly perceived and
recognised, reminded me of days gone by, and
were associated with the light-hearted gaiety of
boyhood. The very winds whispered in soothing
accents, and maternal nature bade me weep no more.
Then again the kindly influence ceased to act — I
found myself fettered again to grief and indulging
in all the misery of reflection. Then I spurred on
my animal, striving so to forget the world, my
fears, and, more than all, myself— or, in a more
desperate fashion, I alighted, and threw myself on
the grass, weighed down by horror and despair.

At length I arrived at the village of Chamounix.
Exhaustion succeeded to the extreme fatigue both

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. I3I

of body and of mind which I had endured. For a
short space of time I remained at the window,
watching the pallid lightnings that played above
Mont Blanc, and listening to the rushing of the
Arve, which pursued its noisy way beneath. The
same lulling sounds acted as a lullaby to my too
keen sensations ; when I placed my head upon my
pillow, sleep crept over me ; I felt it as it came ;
and blessed the giver of oblivion.

CHAPTER X.

I SPENT the following day roaming through the
valley. I stood beside the sources of the Arveiron,
which take their rise in a glacier, that with slow
pace is advancing down from the summit of the
hills, to barricade the valley. The abrupt sides of
vast mountains were before me ; the icy wall of
the glacier overhung me; a few shattered pines
were scattered around ; and the sokmn silence of
this glorious presence-chamber of imperial Nature
was broken only by the brawling waves, or the fall
of some vast fragment, the thunder sound of the
avalanche, or the cracking, reverberated along the
mountains of the accumulated ice, which, through
the silent working of immutable laws, was ever
and anon rent and torn, as if it had been but a
plaything in their hands. These sublime and
magnificent scenes afforded me the greatest coo-

132 FRANKENSTEIN; OR,

solation that I was capable of receiving. They
elevated me from all littleness of feeling ; and
although they did not remove my grief, they sub-
dued and tranquillised it. In some degree, also,
they diverted my mind from the thoughts over
which it had brooded for the last month. I retired
to rest at night ; my slumbers, as it were, waited
on and ministered to by the assemblance of grand
shapes which I had contemplated during the day.
They congregated round me ; the unstained snowy
mountain-top, the glittering pinnacle, the pine
woods, and ragged bare ravine ; the eagle, soaring
amidst the clouds — they all gathered round me,
and bade me be at peace.

Where had they fled when the next morning I
awoke ? All of soul-inspiriting fled with sleep, and
dark melancholy clouded every thought. The rain
was pouring in torrents, and thick mists hid the
summits of the mountains, so that I even saw not
the faces of those mighty friends. Still I would
penetrate their misty veil, and seek them in their
cloudy retreats. What were rain and storm to me ?
My mule was brought to the door, and I resolved
to ascend to the summit of Montanvert. I re-
membered the eflect that the view of the tremendous
and ever-moving glacier had produced upon my
mind when I first saw it. It had then filled me with
a sublime ecstacy, that gave wings to the soul, and
allowed it to soar from the obscure world to light
and joy. The sight of the awful and majestic in

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 1 33

nature had indeed always the effect of solemnising
my mind, and causing me to forget the passing
cares of hfe. I determined to go without a guide,
for I was well acquainted with the path, and the
presence of another would destroy the solitary
grandeur of the scene.

The ascent is precipitous, but the path is cut into
continual and short windings, which enable you to
surmount the perpendicularity of the mountain.
It is a scene terrifically desolate. In a thousand
spots the traces of the winter avalanche may be
perceived, where trees lie broken and strewed on
the ground ; some entirely destroyed, others bent,
leaning upon the jutting rocks of the mountain,
or transversely upon other trees. The path, as you
ascend higher, is intersected by ravines of snow,
down which stones continually roll from above ;
one of them is particularly dangerous, as the slightest
sound, such as even speaking in a loud voice, pro-
duces a concussion of air sufficient to draw destruc-
tion upon the head of the speaker. The pines are
not tall or luxuriant, but they are sombre, and add
an air of severity to the scene. I looked on the
valley beneath ; vast mists were rising from the
rivers which ran through it, and curling in thick
wreaths around the opposite mountains, whose
summits were hid in the uniform clouds, while
rain poured from the dark sky, and added to the
melancholy impression I received from the objects
around me. Alas 1 why does man boast of sensi-

134 FRANKENSTEIN; OR,

bilities superior to those apparent in the brute ; it
only renders them more necessary beings. If our
impulses were confined to hunger, thirst, and desire,
we might be nearly free^ but now we are moved
by every wind that blows, and a chance word or
scene that that word may convey to us.

'* We rest ; a dream has power to poison sleep.

We rise ; one vrand'nng thought pollutes the day.
We feel, conceive, or reason ;,laugh or weep.

Embrace fond woe, or cast our cares away ;
It is the sane : for, be it joy or sorrow,

The path of its departure still is free.
Man's yesterday may ne'er be like his nKurrow ;

Nought may endure but mutability i "

It was nearly noon when I arrived at the top of
tlie ascent. For some time I sat upon the rock
that overlooks the sea of ice. K mist covered both
that and the surrounding mountains. Presently a
breeze dissipated the cloud, and I descended upon
the glacier. The surface is very uneven, rising
like the waves of a troubled sea, descending low,
and interspersed by rifts that sink deep. The field
of ice is almost a league in width, but I spent nearly
two hours in crossing it. The opposite mountain
is a bare perpendicular rock. From the side where
I now stood Montanvert was exactly opposite, at
the distance of a league ; and above it rose Mont
Blanc, in awful majesty. I remained in a recess of
the rock, gazing on this wonderful and stupendous
scene. The sea, or rather the vast river of ice,
wound among its dependent mountains, whose
aerial summits hung over its recesses. Their icy

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 1 35

and glittering peaks shone in the sunlight over the
clouds. My heart, which was before sorrowful,
now swelled with something like joy ; I exclaimed
— " Wandering spirits, if indeed ye wander, and do
not rest in your narrow beds, allow me this faint
happiness, or take me, as your companion, away
from the joys of life."

As I said this, I suddenly beheld the figure of a
man, at some distance, advancing towards me with
superhuman speed. He bounded over the crevices
in the ice, among which I had walked with caution ;
his stature, also, as he approached, seemed to exceed
that of man. I was troubled ; a mist came over
my eyes, and I felt a faintness seize me ; but I was
quickly restored by the cold gale of the mountains.
I perceived, as the shape came nearer (sight tremen-
dous and abhorred I) that it was the wretch whom
I had created. I trembled with rage and horror,
resolving to wait his approach, and then close
with him in mortal combat. He approached ; his
countenance bespoke bitter anguish, combined with
disdain and malignity, while its unearthly ugliness
rendered it almost too horrible for human eyes.
But I scarcely observed this ; rage and hatred had
at first deprived me of utterance, and I recovered
only to overwhelm him with words expressive of
furious detestation and contempt.

"Devil," I exclaimed, "do you dare approach
me ? and do not you fear the fierce vengeance of
my arm wreaked on your miserable head ? Begone,

136 FRANKENSTEIN; OR,

vile insect I or rather, stay, that I may trample you
to dust ! and, oh ! that I could^ with the extinction
of your miserable existence, restore those victims
whom you have so diabolically murdered ! "

"I expected this reception," said the daemon.
" All men hate the wretched ; how, then, must I
be hated, who am miserable beyond all living
things ! Yet you, my creator, detest and spurn
me, thy creature, to whom thou art bound by ties
only dissoluble by the annihilation of one of us.
You purpose to kill me. How dare you sport- thus
with life ? Do your duty towards me, and I will
do mine towards you and the rest of mankind. If
you will comply with my conditions, I i^iU leave
them and you at peace ; but if you refuse, I will
glut the maw of death, until it be satiated with the
blood of your remaining friends."

** Abhorred monster! fiend that thou art! the
tortures of hell are too mild a vengeance for thy
crimes. Wretched devil ! you reproach me with
your creation ; come on, then, that I may extinguish
the spark which I so negligently bestowed."

My rage was without bounds ; 1 sprang on him,
impelled by all the feelings which can arm one
being against the existence of another.

He easily eluded me, and said —

" Be calm ! I entreat you to hear me, before you
give vent to your hatred on my devoted head.
Have I not suffered enough, that you seek to increase
my misery? Life, although it may only be an

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 1 57

accumulation of anguish, is dear to me, and I will
defend it. Remember, thou hast made me more
powerful than thyself; my height is superior to
thine ; my joints more supple. But I will not be
tempted to set myself in opposition to thee. I am
thy creature, and I will be even mild and docile to
my natural lord and king, if thou wilt also perform
thy part, the which thou owest me. O Franken-
stein, be not equitable to every other, and trample
upon me alone, to whom thy justice, and even thy
clemency and affection, is most due. Remember,
that I am thy creature ; I ought to be thy Adam ;
but I am rather the fallen angel, whom thou drivest
from joy for no misdeed. Everywhere I see bliss,
from which I alone am irrevocably excluded. I was
benevolent and good ; misery made me a fiend.
Make me happy, and I shall again be virtuous."

** Begone ! I will not hear you. There can be
no community between you and me ; we are
enemies. Begone, or let us try our strength in a
fight, in which one must fall."

"How ean I move thee? Will no entreaties
cause thee to turn a favourable eye upon thy crea-
ture, who implores thy goodness and compassion ?
Believe me, Frankeinstein : I was benevolent ; my
soul glowed with love and humanity : but am I
not alone, miserably alone ? You, my creator, abhor
me; what hope can I gather from your fellow-
creatures, who owe me nothing ? they spurn and
hate me. The desert mountains and dreary glaciers

138 FRANKENSTEIN; OR,

^re my refuge. I have wandered here many days ;
the caves of ice, which I only do not fear, are a
dwelling to me, and the only one which man does
not grudge. These bleak skies I hail, for they are
kinder to me than your fellow-beings. If the
muhitude of mankind knew of my existence, they
would do as you do, and arm themselves for my
destruction. Shall I not then hate them who abhor
me ? I will keep no terms with my enemies. I
am miserable, and they shall share my wretched-
ness. Yet it is in your power to recompense me,
and deliver them from an evil which it only remains
for you to make so great, that not only you and
your family, but thousands of others, shall be
swallowed up in the whirlwinds of its rage. Let
your compassion be moved, and do not disdain me.
Listen to my tale: when you have heard that,
abandon or commiserate me, as you shall judge
that I deserve. But hear me. The guihy are
allowed, by human laws, bloody as they are, to
speak in their own defence before they are con-
demned. Listen to me, Frankenstein. You accuse
me of murder ; and yet you would, with a satisfied
■conscience, destroy your own creature. Oh, praise
the eternal justice of man I Yet I ask you not to
spare me : listen to me ; and then, if you can, and
if you will, destroy the work of your hands."

•*Why do you call to my remembrance," I
rejoined, "circumstances, of which I shudder to
reflect, that I have been the miserable origin and

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 1 59

author? Cursed be the day, abhorred devil, in
which you first saw light! Cursed (although I
curse myself) be the hands that foritied }'0U ! You
have made me wretched beyond expression. You
have left me no power to consider whether I am
just to you, or not. Begone I relieve me from the
sight of your detested form.*'

" Thus I relieve thee, my creator," he said, and
placed his hated hands before my eyes, which I
flung from me with violence ; ** thus I take from
thee a sight which you abhor. Still thou canst
fisien to me, and grant me thy compassion. By
the virtues that I once possessed, I demand this
from you. Hear my tale ; .it is long and strange,
and the temperature of this place is not fitting to
your fine sensations ; come to the hut upon the
mountain. The sun is yet high in the heavens ;
before it descends to hide itself behind yon snowy
precipices, and illuminate another world, you will
have heard my story, and can decide. On you it
rests, whether I quit for ever the neighbourhood
of man, and lead a harmless life, or become the
scourge of your fellow-creatures, and the author of
your own speedy ruin."

As he said this, he led the way across the ice :
I followed. My heart was full, and I did not
answer him ; but, as I proceeded, I weighed the
various arguments that he had used, and deter-
mined at least to listen to his tale. I was partly
urged by curiosity, and compassion confirmed my

140 FRANKENSTEIN; OR,

resolution. I had hitherto supposed him to be the
murderer of my brother, and I eagerly sought a
confirmation or denial of this opinion. For the
first time, also, I felt what the duties of a creator
towards his creature were, and that I ought to
render him happy before I complained of his
wickedness. These motives urged me to comply
with his demand. We crossed the ice, therefore,
and ascended the opposite rock. The air was cold,
and the rain again began to descend : we entered
the hut, the fiend with an air of exultation, I with
a heavy heart, and depressed spirits. But I con-
sented to listen ; and, seating myself by the fire
which my odious companion had lighted, he thus
began his tale.

CHAPTER XI.

*' It is with considerable difficulty that I remember
the original era of my being : all the events of
that period appear confused and indistinct. A
strange multiplicity of sensations seized me, and I
saw, felt, heard, and smelt, at the same time ; and
it was, indeed, a long time before I learned to dis-
tinguish between the operations of my various
senses. By degrees, I remember, a stronger light
pressed upon my nerves, so that I was obliged to
shut my eyes. Darkness then came over me, and
troubled me ; but hardly had I felt this, when, by

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. I41

opening my eyes, as I now suppose, the light
poured in upon me again. I walked, and, I
believe, descended ; but I presently found a great
alteration in my sensations. Before, dark and
opaque bodies had surrounded me, impervious to
ray touch or sight ; but I now found that I could
wander on at liberty, with no obstacles which I
could not either surmount or avoid. The light
became more and more oppressive to me; and,
the heat wearying me as I walked, I sought a place
where I could receive shade. This was the forest
near Ingolstadt ; and here I lay by the side of a
brook resting from my fatigue, until I felt tor-
mented by hunger and thirst. This roused me
from my nearly dormant state, and I ate some
berries which I found hanging on the trees, or
lying on the ground. I slaked my thirst at the
brook; and then lying down, was overcome by
sleep.

**It was dark when I awoke; I felt cold also,
and half-frightened, as it were instinctively, finding
m)rself so desolate. Before I had quitted your
apartment, on a sensation of cold, I had covered
myself with some clothes ; but these were insuf-
ficient to secure me from the dews of night. I was
a poor, helpless, miserable wretch ; I knew, and
could distinguish, nothing ; but feeling pain invade
me on all sides, I sat down and wept.

*' Soon a gentle light stole ovjer the heavens, and
gave me a sensation of pleasure. I started up, and

142 FRANKENSTEIN ; OR,

beheld a radiant form rise from among the trees.*
I gazed with a kind of wonder. It moved slowly,
but it enlightened my path ; and I again went out
in search of berries. I was still cold, when under
one of the trees I found a huge cloak; with which
1 covered myselfj^ and sat down upon the ground.
No distinct ideas occupied my mind ; all was con-
fused, 1 felt light, and hunger, and thirst, and
darkness ; innumerable sounds rung in my ears,
and on all sides various scents saluted me ; the only
object that I could distinguish was the bright moon,
and I fixed my eyes on that with pleasure.

" Several changes of day and night passed, and
the orb of night had greatly lessened, when I began
to distinguish my sensations from each other. I
gradually saw plainly the dear stream that supplied
me with drink, and the trees that shaded me with
their ^iage. I was delighted when I first dis-
covered that a pleasant sound, which often saluted
my ears, proceeded from the throats of the little
winged animals who had often intercepted the light
from my eyes. I began also to observe, with greater
accuracy, the forms that surrounded me, and to
perceive the boundaries of the radiant roof of light
which canopied me. Sometimes I tried to imitate
the pleasant songs of the birds, but was unable.
Sometimes I wished to express my sensations in
ray own mode, but the uncouth and inarticulate

* The moon.

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. I4J

sounds which broke from me frightened me into
silence again.

'* The moon had disappeared from the night, and
again, with a kssened form, showed itself, while I
still remained in the forest. My sensations had,,
by this thne, become distinct, and my mind received
every day additional ideas. My eyes became accus-
tomed to the light, and to perceive objects in their
right forms; I distinguished the insect from the
herb, and, by degrees, one herb from another. I
found that the sparrow uttered none but harsh
notes, whilst those of tiie blackbird and thrush
were sweet and entidng.

" One day, when I was oppressed by cold, I
found a fire which had been left by some wander-
ing beggais, and was overcome with delight at the
w^armth I experienced from it. In my joy I thrust
my hand into the live embers, but quickly drew
it out again with a cry of pain. How strange, I
thought, that the same cause should produce such
opposite effects I 1 examined the materials of the
fire, and to my joy found it to be composed of
wood. I quickly collected some branches; but
they were wet, and would not bum. I was pained
at this, and sat still watching the operation of the
fire. The wet wood which I had placed near the
heat dried, and itself became inflamed. I reflected
on this ; and, by touching the various branches, I
discovered the cause, and busied myself in collect-
ing a great quantity of wood, that I might dry it,

144 FRANKENSTEIN; OR,

and have a plentiful supply of fire. When night
came on, and brought sleep with it, I was in the
greatest fear lest my fire should be extinguished.
I covered it carefully with dry wood and leaves, and
placed wet branches upon it ; and then, spreading
my cloak, I lay on the ground, and sunk into sleep.

"It was morning when I awoke, and my first
care was to visit the fire. I uncovered it, and a
gentle breeze quickly fanned it into a flame. I
observed this also, and contrived a fan of branches,
which roused the embers when they were nearly
extinguished. When night came again, I found,
with pleasure, that the fire gave light as well as
heat ; and that the discovery of this element was
useful to me in my food ; for I found some of the
oflals that the travellers had left had been roasted,
and tasted much more savoury than the berries I
gathered from the trees. I tried, therefore, to dress
my food in the same manner, placing it on the live
embers. I found that the berries were spoiled by
this operation, and the nuts and roots mudi im-
proved.

" Food, however, became scarce ; and I often
spent the whole day searching in vain for a few
acorns to assuage the pangs of hunger. When I
found this, I resolved to quit the place that I had
hitherto inhabited, to seek for one where the few
wants I experienced would be more easily satisfied.
In this emigration, I exceedingly lamented the loss
of the fire which I had obtained through accident,

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 14)

and knew not how to reproduce it. I gave several
hours to the serious consideration of this difficulty ;
but I was obliged to relinquish all attempt to supply
it ; and, wrapping myself up in my cloak, I struck
across the wood towards the setting sun. I passed
three days in these rambles, and at length dis-
covered the open country. A great fall of snow
had taken place the night before, and the fields were
of one uniform white ; the appearance was discon-
solate, and I found my feet chilled by the cold
damp substance that covered the ground.

** It was about seven in the morning, and I longed
to obtain food and shelter ; at length I perceived a
small hut, on a rising ground, which had doubtless
been built for the convenience of some shepherd.
This was a new sight to me ; and I examined the
structure with great curiosity. Finding the door
open^ I entered. An old man sat in it, near a fire,
over which he was preparing his breakfast. He
turned on hearing a noise ; and, perceiving me,
shrieked loudly, and, quitting the hut, ran across
the fields with a speed of which his debilitated form
hardly appeared capable. His appearance, different
from any I had ever before seen, and his flight,
somewhat surprised me. But I was enchanted by
the appearance of the hut : here the snow and rain
could not penetrate : the ground was dr}' ; and it
presented to me then as exquisite and divine a retreat
as Pandaemonium appeared to the daemons of hell
after their sufferings in the lake of fire. I greedily

146 FRANKENSTEIN; OR,

devoured the remnants of the shepherd's breakfast^
which consisted of bread, cheese, milk, and wine ;
the latter, however, I did not like. Then, over-
come by fatigue, I lay down among some straw,
and fell asleep.

"It was noon when I awoke; and, allured by
the warmth of the sun, which shone brightly on
the white ground, I determined to recommence my
travels ; and, depositing the remains of the peasant's
breakfast in a wallet I found, I proceeded across the
fields for several hours, until at sunset I arrived
at a village. How miraculous did this appear I
the huts, the neater cottages, and stately houses,
engaged my admiration by turns. The vegetables
in the gardens, the milk and cheese that 1 saw
placed at the windows of some of the cottages,
allured my appetite. One of the best of these 1
entered ; but I had hardly placed my foot within
the door, before the children shrieked, and one of
the women fainted. The whole village was roused ;
some fled, some attacked me, until, grievously
bruised by stones and many other kinds of missile-
weapons, I escaped to the open country, and fear-
fully took refuge in a low hovel, quite bare, and
making a wretched appearance after the palaces I
had beheld in the village. This hovel, however,
joined a cottage of a neat and pleasant appearance ;
but, after my late dearly bought experience, I dared
not enter it My place of refuge was constructed
of wood, but so low, that I could with difficulty

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 1 47

sit upright in it. No wood, however, was placed
on the earth which formed the floor, but it was
dry ; and although the wind entered it by innumer-
able chinks, I found it an agreeable asylum from
the snow and rain.

" Here then I retreated, and lay down happy to-
have found a shelter, however miserable, from the
inclemency of the season, and still more from the
barbarity of man.

" As soon as morning dawned, I crept from niy^
kennel, tliat I might view the adjacent cottage, and
discover if I could remain in the habitation I had
found. It was situated against the back of the
cottage, and surrounded on the sides which were
exposed by a pig-sty and a clear pool of water.
One part was open, and by that I had crept in ; but
now I covered every crevice by which I might be
perceived with stones and wood, yet in such a
manner that I might move them on occasion to*
pass out : all the light I enjoyed came through the
sty, and that was sufficient for me.

" Having thus arranged my dwelling, and car-
peted it with clean straw, I retired ; for I saw the
figure of a man at a distance, and I remembered
too well my treatment the night before, to trust
myself in his power. I had first, however, provided
for my sustenance for that day, by a loaf of coarse
bread, which I purloined, and a cup with which I
could drink, more conveniently than from my hand^
of the pure water which flowed by my retreat*

I

148 FRANKENSTEIN; OR,

The floor was a little raised, so that it was kept
perfectly dry, and by its vicinity to the chimney of
the cottage it was tolerably warm.

"Being thus provided, I resolved to reside in
this hovel, until something should occur which
might alter my determination. It was indeed a
paradise, compared to the bleak forest, my former
residence, the rain-dropping branches,' and dank
earth. I ate my breakfast with pleasure, and was
about to remove a plank to procure myself a little
water, when I heard a step, and looking through
a small chink, I beheld a young creature, with a
pail on her head, passing before my hovel. The
girl was young, and of gentle demeanour, unlike
what I have since found cottagers and farm-house
servants to be. Yet she was meanly dressed, a
coarse blue petticoat and a linen jacket being her
only garb; her fair hair was plaited, but not
adorned : she looked patient, yet sad. I lost sight
of her ; and in about a quarter of an hour she re-
turned, bearing the pail, which was now partly
filled with milk. As she walked along, seemingly
incommoded by the burden, a young man met her,
whose countenance expressed a deeper despond-
ence. Uttering a few sounds with an air of melan-
choly, he took the pail from her head, and bore
it to the cottage himself. She followed, and they
disappeared. Presently I saw the young man
again, with some tools in his hand, cross the field
behind the cottage ; and the girl was also busied,

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 1 49

sometimes in the house, and sometimes in the
yard.

" On examining my dwelling, I found that one
of the windows of the cottage had formerly occu-
pied a part of it, but the panes had been filled up
with wood. In one of these was a small and
almost imperceptible chink, through which the eye
could just penetrate. Through this crevice a small
room was visible, whitewashed and clean, but very
bare of furniture. In one comer, near a small fire,
sat an old man, leaning his head on his hands in a
disconsolate attitude. The young girl was occupied
in arranging the cottage : but presently she took
something out of a drawer, which employed her
hands, and she sat down beside the old man, who,
taking up an instrument, began to play, and to pro-
duce sounds sweeter than the voice of the thrush
or the nightingale. It was a lovely sight, even to
me, poor wretch I who had never beheld aught
beautiful before. The silver hair and benevolent
countenance of the aged cottager won my reverence,
while the gentle manners of the girl enticed my
love. He played a sweet mournful air, which I
perceived drew tears from the eyes of his amiable
companion, of which the old man took no notice,
until she sobbed audibly ; he then pronounced a
few sounds, and the fair creature, leaving her
work, knelt at his feet. He raised her, and smiled
with such kindness and affection, that I felt sensa-
tions of a peculiar and overpowering nature : they

150 FRANKENSTEIN; OR,

-were a mixture of pain and pleasure, such as I had
never before experienced, either from hunger or
■cold, warmth or food ; and I withdrew from the
window, unable to bear these emotions.

" Soon after this the young man returned, bear-
ing on his shoulders a load of wood. The girl
met him at the door, helped to relieve him of his
burden, and, taking some of the fuel into the cot-
tage, placed it on the fire ; then she and the youth
went apart into a nook of the cottage, and he
showed her a large loaf and piece of cheese. She
rseemed pleased, and went into the garden for some
roots and plants, which she placed in water, and
then upon tlie fire. She afterwards continued her
work, whilst the young man went into the garden,
and appeared busily employed in digging and pull-
ing up roots. After he had been employed thus
about an hour, the young woman joined him, and
they entered the cottage together.

** The old man had, in the meantime, been
pensive ; but, on the appearance of his companions,
he assumed a more cheerful air, and they sat down
to eat. The meal was quickly despatched. The
young woman was again occupied in arranging
the cottage ; the old man walked before the cottage
in the sun for a few minutes, leaning on the arm
of the youth. Nothing could exceed in beauty the
contrast between these two excellent creatures.
One was old, with silver hairs and a countenance
beaming with benevolence and love ; the younger

« J

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. I5I

was slight and graceful in his figure, and his
features were moulded with the finest symmetry ;
yet his eyes and attitude expressed the utmost sad-
ness and despondency. The old man returned to
the cottage; and the youth, with tools different
from those he had used in the morning, direaed
his steps across the fields.

** Night quickly shut in ; but, to my extreme
wonder, I found that the cottagers had a means of
prolonging light by the use of tapers, and was de-
lighted to find that the setting of the sun did not
put an end to the pleasure I experienced in watching
my human neighbours. In the evening, the young
girl and her companion were employed in various
occupations which I did not understand ; and the
old man again took up the instrument which pro-
duced the divine sounds that had enchanted me in
the morning. So soon as he had finished, the
youth began, not to play, but to utter sounds that
were monotonous, and neither resembling the har-
mony of the old man's instrument nor the songs of
the birds : I since found that he read aloud, but at
that time I knew nothing of the science of words
or letters.

**The family, after having been thus occupied
for a short time, extinguished their lights, and
retired, as I conjectured, to rest.

152 FRANKENSTEIN; OR,

CHAPTER XII.

**I LAY on my straw, but I could not sleep. 1
thought of the occurrences of the day. What
chiefly struck me was the gentle manners of these
people ; and I longed to join them, but dared not.
I remembered too well the treatment I had suffered
the night before from the barbarous villagers, and
resolved, whatever course of conduct I might here-
after think it right to pursue, that for the present I
would remain quietly in my hovel, watching, and
endeavouring to discover the motives which in-
fluenced their actions.

" The cottagers arose the next morning before
the sun. The young woman arranged the cottage,
and prepared the food; and the youth departed
after the first meaL

** This day was passed in the same routine as
that which preceded it. The young man was
constantly employed out of doors, and the girl in
various laborious occupations within. The old
man, whom I soon perceived to be blind, employed
his leisure hours on his instrument or in contempla-
tion. Nothing could exceed the love and respect
which the younger cottagers exhibited towards their
venerable companion. They performed towards
him every little office of affection and duty with
gentleness ; and he rewarded them by his benevo-
lent smiles.

** They were not entirely happy. The young

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. I 53

man and his companion often went apart, and
appeared to weep. I saw no cause for their un-
happiness ; but I was deeply aflfected by it. If such
lovely creatures were miserable, it was less strange
that I, an imperfect and solitary being, should be
wretched. Yet why were these gentle beings un-
happy? They possessed a delightful house (for
such it was in my eyes) and every luxury ; they
had a fire to warm them when chill, and delicious
viands when hungry; they were dressed in ex-
cellent clothes ; and, still more, they enjoyed one
another's company and speech, interchanging each
day looks of aflfection and kindness. What did
their tears imply ? Did they really express pain ?
I was at first unable to solve these questions ; but
perpetual attention and time explained to me many
appearances which were at first enigmatic.

**A considerable period elapsed before I dis-
covered one of the causes of the uneasiness of this
amiable family : it was poverty ; and they suffered
that evil in a very distressing degree. Their
nourishment consisted entirely of the vegetables of
their garden, and the milk of one cow, which gave
very little during the winter, when its masters could
scarcely procure food to support it. They often, I
believe, suffered the pangs of hunger very poig-
nantly, especially the two younger cottagers ; for
several times they placed food before the old man,
when the)' reserved none for themselves.

** This trait of kindness moved me sensibly. I

154 FRANKENSTEIN; OR,

liad been accustomed, during the night, to steal a
part of their store for my own consumption ; but
when I found that in doing this I inflicted pain on
the cottagers, I abstained, and satisfied myself witli
berries, nuts, and roots, which I gathered from a
neighbouring wood.

*' I discovered also another means through which
I was enabled to assist their labours. I found that
the youth spent a great part of each day in collect-
ing wood for the family fire; and, during the
night, I often took his tools, the use of which I
quickly discovered, and brought home firing suf-
ficient for the consumption, of several days.

" I remember, the first time that I did this, the
young woman, when she opened the door in the
morning, appeared greatly astonished on seeing a
great pile of wood on the outside. She uttered
some words in a loud voice, and the youth joined
her, who also expressed surprise. I observed, >^dth
pleasure, that he did not go to the forest that day,
but spent it in repairing the cottage, and cultivating
the garden.

" By degrees I made a discovery of still greater
moment. I found that these people possessed a
method of communicating their experience and
feelings to one another by articulate sounds. I
perceived that the words they spoke sometimes,
produced pleasure or pain, smiles or sadness, in the
minds and countenances of the hearers. This was
indeed a godlike science, and I ardently desired to

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. I55

become acquainted with it. But I was baffled in
every attempt I made for this purpose. Their
pronunciation was quick ; and the words they
uttered, not having any apparent connection with
visible objects, I was unable to discover any clue
by which I could unravd the mystery of their
reference. By great application, however, and
after having remained during the space of several
revolutions of the moon in my hovel, I discovered
the names that were given to some of the most
familiar objects of discourse ; I learned and applied
the words fire, milky hready and wood, I learned
also the names of the cottagers themselves. The
youth and his companion had each of them several
names, but the old man had only one, which was
father. The girl was called sistery or Agatha ; and
the youth Felix, brother y ov son, I cannot describe
the delight I felt when I learned the ideas appro-
priated to each of these sounds, and was able to
pronounce them. I distinguished several other
words, without being able as yet to understand or
apply them ; such as good^ dearest, unlmppy,

'* I spent the winter in this manner. The gentle
manners and beauty of the cottagers greatly en-
deared them to me : when they were unhappy, I
felt depressed ; when they rejoiced, I sympathised
in their joys. I saw few human beings beside
them; and if any other happened to enter the
cotuge, their harsh manners and rude gait only
enhanced to me the superior accomplishments of

156 FRAKKENSTEIK ; OR,

my friends. The old man, I could perceive, often
endeavoured to encourage his children, as some-
times I found that he called them, to cast off their
melancholy. He would talk in a cheerful accent,
with an expression of goodness that bestowed
pleasure even upon me. Agatha listened with
respect, her eyes sometimes filled with tears^ which
she endeavoured to wipe away unperceived ; but I
generally found that Jier countenance and tone were
more cheerful after having listened to the exhorta-
tions of her father. It was not thus with Felix.
He was always the saddest of the group ; and, even
to my unpractised senses, he appeared to have
suffered more deeply than his friends. But if his
countenance was more sorrowful, his voice was
more cheerful than that of his sister, especially
when he addressed the old man.

*^ I could mention innumerable instances, which,
although slight, marked the dispositions of these
amiable cottagers. In the midst of poverty and
want, Felix carried with pleasure to his sister the
first little white flower that peeped out from be-
neath the snowy ground. Early in the morning,
before ^he had risen, he cleared away the snow
that obstructed her path to the milk-house, drew
water from the well, and brought the wood from
the outhouse, where, to his perpetual astonish-
ment, he found his store always replenished by an
invisible hand. In the day, I believe, he worked
sometimes for a neighbouring farmer, because he

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. I 57

often went forth, and did not return until dinner,
yet brought no wood with him. At other times
he worked in the garden ; but as there was little
to do in the frosty Season, he read to the old man
and Agatha.

"This reading had puzzled me extremely at
first ; but, by degrees, I discovered that he uttered
many of the same sounds when he read, as when
he talked. I conjectured, therefore, that he found
on the paper signs for speech which he understood,
and I ardently longed to comprehend these also ;
but how was that possible, when I did not even
understand the sounds for which they stood as
signs? I improved, however, sensibly in this
science, but not sufficiently to follow up any kind
of conversation, although I applied my whole mind
to the endeavour : for I easily perceived that, al-
though I eagerly longed to discover myself to the
trottagers, I ought not to make the attempt until I
had first become master of their language ; which
knowledge might enable me to make them over-
look the deformity of my figure ; for with this also
the contrast perpetually presented to my eyes had
made me acquainted.

** I had admired the perfect forms of my cottagers
— their grace, beauty, and delicate complexions;
but how was I terrified, when I viewed myself in
a transparent pool ! At first I started back, unable
to believe that it was indeed I who was reflected
in the mirror ; and when I became fully convinced

158 FRANKENSTEIN ; OR,

that I was in reality the monster that I am, I was
filled with the bitterest sensations of despondence
and mortification. Alas I I did not yet entirely
know the fatal effects of this miserable deformity,

*' As the sun became warmer, and the light of
day longer, the snow vanished, and I beheld the
bare trees and the black earth. From this time
Felix, was more employed ; and the heart-moving
indications of impending famine disappeared.
Their food, as I afterwards found, was coarse, but
it was wholesome ; and they procured a sufficiency
of it. Several new kinds of plants sprung up in
the garden, which they dressed ; and these signs
of comfort increased daily as the season advanced.

** The old man, leaning on his son, walked each
day at noon, when it did not rain, as I found it
was called when the heavens poured forth its
waters. This frequently took place ; but a high
wind quickly dried the earth, and the season be-
came far more pleasant than it had been.

**My mode of life in my hovel was uniform.
During the morning, I attended the motions of the
cottagers ; and when they were dispersed in various
occupations, I slept : the remainder of the day was
spent in observing my friends. When they had
retired to rest, if there was any moon, or the night
was star-light, I went into the woods, and collected
my own food and fuel for the cottage. When I
returned, as often as it was necessary, I cleared
their path from the snow, and performed those

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. I 59

offices that I had seen done by Felix. I afterwards
found that these labours, performed by an invisible
hand, greatly astonished them ; and once or twice
I heard them, on these occasions, utter the words
good spirit, wonderful ; but I did not then under-
stand the signification of these terms.

" My thoughts now became more aaive, and I
longed to discover the motives and feelings of these
lovely creatures ; I was inquisitive to know why
Felix appeared so miserable, and Agatha so sad.
I thought (foolish wretch !) that it might be in
my power to restore happiness to these deserving
people. When I slept, or was absent, the forms
of the venerable blind father, the gentle Agatha,
and the excellent Felix, flitted before me. I looked
upon them as superior beings, who would be the
arbiters of my future destiny. I formed in my
imagination a thousand pictures of presenting
myself to them, and their reception of me. I ima-
gined that they would be disgusted, until, by my
gentle demeanour and conciliating words, I should
first win their favour, and afterwards their love.

" These thoughts exhilarated me, and led me to
apply with fresh ardour to the acquiring the art
of language. My organs were indeed harsh, but
supple; and although my voice was very unlike
the soft music of their tones, yet I pronounced
such words as I understood with tolerable ease.
It was as the ass and the lap-dog ; yet surely the
gentle ass, whose intentions were affectionate,

l60 FRANKENSTEIN ; OR,

although his manners were rude, deserved better
treatment than blows and execration.

"The pleasant showers and genial warmth of
spring greatly altered the aspect of the earth. Men,
who before this change seemed to have been hid in
caves, dispersed themselves, and were employed in
various arts of cultivation. The birds sang in more
cheerful notes, and the leaves began to bud forth
on the trees. Happy, happy earth ! fit habitation
for gods, which, so short a time before, was bleak,
damp, and unwholesome. My spirits were elevated
by the enchanting appearance of nature ; the past
was blotted from my memory, the present was
tranquil, and the future gilded by bright rays of
hope and anticipations of joy.

CHAPTER XIII.

*' I NOW hasten to the more moving part of my
story. I shall relate events, that impressed me
with feelings which, from what I had been, have
made me what I am.

*' Spring advanced rapidly ; the weather became
fine, and the skies cloudless. It surprised me, that
what before was desert and gloomy should now
bloom with the most beautiful flowers and verdure.
My senses were gratified and refreshed by a thou-
sand scents of delight, and a thousand sights of
beauty.

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. l6l

** It was on one of these da)rs, when my cot-
tagers periodically rested from labour — the old
man played on his guitar, and the children listened
to him — that I observed the countenance of Felix
was melancholy beyond expression ; he sighed fre-
quently ; and once his father paused in his music,
and I conjectured by his manner that he inquired
the cause of his son's sorrow. Felix replied in a
cheerful accent, and the old man was recommenc-
ing his music, when some one tapped at the door.

** It was a lady on horseback, accompanied by a
countryman as a guide. The lady was dressed in
a dark suit, and covered with a thick black veil.
Agatha asked a question ; to which the stranger
only replied by pronouncing, in a sweet accent,
the name of Felix. Her voice was musical, but
unlike that of either of my friends. On hearing
this word, Felix came up hastily to the lady ; who,
when she saw him, threw up her veil, and I beheld
a countenance of angelic beauty and expression.
Her hair of a shining raven black, and curiously
braided ; her eyes were dark, but gentle, although
animated ; her features of a regular proportion, and
her complexion wondrously fair, each cheek tinged
with a lovely pink.

** Felix seemed ravished with delight when he
saw her, every trait of sorrow vanished from his
face, and it instantly expressed a degree of ecstatic
joy, of which I could hardly have believed it
capable; his eyes sparkled, as his cheek flushed

(31) F

l62 FRANKENSTEIN ; OR,

Avith pleasure ; and at that moment I thought him
^s beautiful as the stranger. She appeared affected
by diflferent feelings ; wiping a few tears from her
lovely eyes, she held out her hand to Felix, who
kissed it rapturously, and called her, as well as I
could distinguish, his sweet Arabian. She did not
appear to understand him, but smiled. He assisted
her to dismount, and, dismissing her guide, con-
ducted her into the cottage. Some conversation
took place between him and his father; and the
young stranger knelt at the old man's feet, and
would have kissed his hand, but he raised her, and
embraced her affectionately.

*'I soon perceived, that although the stranger
uttered articulate sounds, and appeared to have a
language of her own, she was neither understood
by, nor herself understood, the cottagers. They
made many signs which I did not comprehend ; but
I saw tliat her presence diffused gladness through
the cottage, dispelling their sorrow as the sun dissi-
pates the morning mists. Felix seemed peculiarly
haj^y, and with smiles of delight welcomed his
Arabian. Agatha, the ever-gentle Agatha, kissed
the hands of the lovely stranger ; and, pointing to
her brother, made signs which appeared to me to
mean that he had been sorrowful until she came.
Some hours passed thus, while they, by their coun-
tenances, expressed joy, the cause of which I did
not comprehend. Presently I found, by the fre-
<que»f rectirrence of some sound which the stranger

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 163

repeated after them, that she was endeavouring
to learn their language; and the idea instantly
occurred to me, that I should make use of the same
instructions to the same end. The stranger learned
about twenty words at the first lesson, most of
them, indeed, were those which I had before under-
stood, but I profited by the others.

"As night came on, Agatha and the Arabian
retired early. When they separated, Felix kissed
the hand of the stranger, and said, * Good night,
sweet Safie.' He sat up much longer, conversing
with his father ; and, by the frequent repetition of
her name, I conjectured that their lovely guest was
the subject of their conversation. I ardently desired
to understand them, and bent every faculty towards
tliat purpose, but found it utterly impossible, "

'* The next morning Felix went out to his work ;
and, after the usual occupations of Agatha were
finished, the Arabian sat at the feet of the old man,
and, taking his guitar, played some airs so entranc-
ingly beautiful, that they at once drew tears of
sorrow and delight from my eyes. She sang, and
her voice flowed in a rich cadence, swelling or
dying away, like a nightingale of the woods.

" When she had finished, she gave the guitar to
Agatha, who at first declined it. She played a
simple air, and her voice accompanied it in sweet
accents, but unlike the wondrous strain of the
stranger. The old man appeared enraptured, and
said some words, which Agatha endeavoured to

1 64 FRANKENSTEIN; OR,

explain to Safie, and by which he appeared to wish
to express that she bestowed on him the greatest
delight by her music.

The da)rs now passed as peaceably as before, with
the sole alteration, that joy had taken place of sad-
ness in the countenances of my friends. Safie was
always gay and happy ; she and I improved rapidly
in the knowledge of language, so that in two
months I began to comprehend most of the words
uttered by my protectors.

" In the meanwhile also the black ground was
covered with herbage, and the green banks inter-
spersed with innumerable flowers, sweet to the
scent and the eyes, stars of pale radiance among
the moonlight woods; the sun became warmer,
the nights clear and balmy ; and my nocturnal
rambles were an extreme pleasure to me, although
they were considerably shortened by the late setting
and early rising of the sun ; for I never ventured
abroad during daylight, fearful of meeting with the
same treatment I had formerly endured in the first
village which I entered.

"My days were spent in close atteniion, that I
might more speedily master the language ; and I
may boast that I improved more rapidly than the
Arabian, who understood very little, and conversed
in broken accents, whilst I comprehended and could
imitate almost every word that was spoken.

"While I improved in speech, I also learned the
science of letters, as it was taught to the stranger ;

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. l6$

and this opened before me a wide field for wonder
and delight.

**The book from which Felix instructed Safie
was Volney's 'Ruins of Empires.' I should not
have understood the purport of this book, had not
Felix, in reading it, given very minute explanations.
He had chosen this work, he said, because the
declamatory style was framed in imitation of the
eastern authors. Through this work I obtained a
cursory knowledge of history, and a view of the
several empires at present existing in the world ;
it gave me an insight into the manners, govern-
ments, and religions of the different nations of
the earth. I heard of the slothful Asiatics; of
the stupendous genius and mental activity of the
Grecians ; of the wars and wonderful virtue of the
early Romans — of their subsequent degenerating —
of the decline of that mighty empire ; of chivalry,
Christianity, and kings. I heard of the discovery
of the American hemisphere, and wept with Safie
over the hapless fate of its original inhabitants.

"These wonderful narrations inspired me with
strange feelings. Was man, indeed, at once so
powerful, so virtuous and magnificent, yet so vicious
and base ? He appeared at one time a mere scion
of the evil principle, and at another, as all that can
'be conceived of noble and godlike. To be a great
and virtuous man appeared the highest honour that
can befall a sensitive being ; to be base and vicious,
as many on record have been^ appeared the lowest

1 66 FRANKENSTEIN ; OR,

degradation, a condition more abject than that of
the blind mole or harmless worm. For a long
time I could not conceive how one man could go
fortli to murder his fellow, or even why there were
laws and governments ; but when I heard details
of vice and bloodshed, my wonder ceased, and I
turned away with disgust and loathing.

"Every conversation of the cottagers now opened
new wonders to me. While I listened to the in-
structions which Felix bestowed upon the Arabian,
the strange system of human society was explained
to me. I heard of the division of property, of
immense wealth and squalid poverty; of rank,
descent, and noble blood.

" The words induced me to turn towards myself.
I learned that the possessions most esteemed by
your fellow-creatures were, high and unsullied
descent united with riches. A man might be re-
spected with only one of these advantages ; but,
without either, he was considered, except in very
rare instances, as a vagabond and a slave, doomed
to waste his powers for the profits of the chosen
few 1 And what was I ? Of my creation and
creator I was absolutely ignorant ; but I knew that
I possessed no money, no friends, no kind of pro-
perty. I was, besides, endued with a figure hide-
ously deformed and loathsome ; I was not even of *
the same nature as man. I was more agile than
they, and could subsist upon coarser diet ; I bore
the extremes of heat and cold with less injury to

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 1 6/

my frame ; my stature far exceeded theirs. When
I looked around^ I saw and heard of none like me.
Was I then a monster, a blot upon the earth, from
which all men fled, and whom all men disowned ?

'* I cannot describe to you the agony that these
reflections inflicted upon me: I tried to dispel
them, but sorrow only increased with knonwrlcdge.
Oil, that I had for ever remained in my native
wood, nor known nor felt be}XMid the sensations
of hui^ger, tliirst, and heat 1

*' Of what a strange nature is knowledge I It
clings to the mind, when it has once seized on it^
like a lichen on the rock. I wished sometimes ta
shake off" all thought and feeling ; but I learned
that there was but one means to overcome the
sensation of pain, and that was death — a state
which I feared yet did not understand. I admired
virtue and good feelings, and loved the gentle
manners and amiable qualities of my cottagers ;
but I was shut out from intercourse with them,
except through means which I obtained by stealth,
when I was unseen and unknown, and w^bich
Hither increased than satisHed the desire I had of
becoming one among my fellows. The gentle
words of Agatha, and the animated smiles of the
charming Arabian, were not for me. The mild
exhortations of the old man, and the lively con-
versation of the loved Felix, were not for me.
Miserable unhappy wretch I

'* Other lessons were impressed upon me even

1 68 FRANKENSTEIN; OR,

more deeply. I heard of the difference of sexes ;
and the birth and growth of children ; how the
father doted on the smiles of the infant, and the
lively sallies of the older child ; how all the life
and cares of the mother were wrapped up in the
precious charge ; how the mind of youth expanded
and gained knowledge ; of brother, sister, and all
the various relationships which bind one human
being to another in mutual bonds.

"But where were my friends and relations?
No father had watched my infant days, no mother
had blessed me with smiles and caresses; or if
they had, all my past life was now a blot, a blind
vacancy in which I distinguished nothing. From
my earliest remembrance I had been as I then was
in height and proportion. I had never yet seen a
being resembling me, or who claimed any inter-
course with me. What was I? The question
again recurred, to be answered only with groans.

"I will soon explain to what these feehngs
tended ; but allow me now to return to the cot-
tagers, whose story excited in me such various
feelings of indignation, delight, and wonder, but
which all terminated in additional love and re-
verence for my protectors (for so I loved, in an
innocent, half painful self-deceit, to call them).

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 169

CHAPTER XrV.

" Some time elapsed before I learned the history
of my friends. It was one which could not fail to
impress itself deeply on my mind, unfolding as it
did a number of circumstances, each interesting
and wonderful to one so utterly inexperienced as
I was.

" The name of the old man was De Lacey.
He was descended from a good family in France,
where he had lived for many years in affluence,
respected by his superiors, and beloved by his
equals. His son was bred in the service of his
country; and Agatha had ranked with ladies of
the highest distinction. A few months before my
arrival, they had lived in a large and luxurious
city, called Paris, surrounded by friends, and pos-
sessed of every enjoyment which virtue, refinement
of intellect, or taste, accompanied by a moderate
fortune, could afford.

*' The father of Safie had been the cause of their
ruin. He was a Turkish merchant, and had in-
habited Paris for many years, when, for some
reason which I could not learn, he became ob-
noxious to the government. He was seized and
cast into prison the very day that Safie arrived from
Constantinople to join him. He was tried, and
condemned to death. The injustice of his sentence
was very flagrant ;• all Paris 'was indignant ; and it

170 FRANKENSTEIN; OR,

was judged that his religion and wealth, rather
than the crime alleged against him, had been the
cause of his condemnation.

** Felix had accidentally been present at the trial ;
his horror and indignation were uncontrollable,
when he heard the decision of the court. He
made, at that moment, a solemn vow to deliver
him, and then looked around for the means* After
many fruitless attempts to gain admittance to the
prison, he fout^ a strongly grated window in an
unguarded part of the building, which lighted the
dungeon of the unfortunate Mahometan; who,
loaded with chains^ waited in despair the execution
of the barbarous sentence. Felix visited the grate
at night, and made known to the prisoner his
intentions in his favour. The Turk, amazed and
delighted, endeavoured to kindle the zeal of his
deliverer by promises of reward and wealth. Felix
rejected his offers with contempt; yet when he
saw the lovely Safie, who was allowed to visit her
father, and who, by her gestures, expressed her
lively gratitude, the youth could not hdp owning to
his own mind, that the captive possessed a treasure
which vi-ould fully reward his toil and hazatxL

** The Turk quickly perceived the impression
tliat his daughter had made on tlie heart of Felix,
and endeavoured to secure liim more entffehr in
his interests by the promise of her hand in marriage,
so soon as he should be conveyed to a place of
safety. Felix was too delicate to accept this offer ;

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. I7I

yet he looked forward to the probability of the
event as to the consummation of his happiness.

** During the ensuing days, while the prepara^
tions were going forward for the escape of the
merchant, the zeal of Felix was warmed by several
letters that he received from this lovely girl, wlio
fi^und means to express her thoughts in the lan-
guage of her lover by the aid 9f an old man, a
servant of her father, who understood French. She
thanked him in the most ardent terms for bis in-
tended services towards her parem; and at the
same time she gently deplored her own fate.

**I liave copies of these letters; for I found
means, during ray residence in the hovel» to pro-
cure tiic implements of writing ; and the letters
were often in the hands of Felix or Agatha, Before
I depart, I will give them to you, they will pnDve
the truth of my tale ; but at present, as the sun is
already far declined, I shall only have time to repeat
the substance of them to you-

'* Safie related, that her mother was a Christian
Arab, seized and made a slave by the Turks ; re-
commended by her beauty, she had won the heart
of the father of Safie, who married her. The
young girl spoke in high and enthusiastic terms of
her mother, who, bom in freedom, spurned the
bondage to which she was now reduced. She
instructed her daughter in the tenets of her religion,
and taught her to aspire to higher powers of intel-
lect, and an independence of spirit, forbidden to

172 FRANKENSTEIN; OR,

the female followers of Mahomet. This lady died ;
but her lessons were indelibly impressed on the
mind of Safie, who sickened at the prospect of
again returning to Asia, and being immured within
the walls of a harem, allowed only to occupy her-
self with infantile amusements, ill suited to the
temper of her soul, now accustomed to grand ideas
and a noble emulation for virtue. The prospect of
marrying a Christian, and remaining in a country
where women were allowed to take a rank in
society, was enchanting to her.

"The day for the execution of the Turk was
fixed ; but, on the night previous to it, he quitted
his prison, and before morning was distant many
leagues from Paris. Felix had procured passports
in the name of his father, sister, and himself. He
had previously communicated his plan to the
former, who aided the deceit by quitting his house,
under the pretence of a journey, and concealed him-
self, with his daughter, in an obscure part of Paris.

'* Felix conducted the fugitives through France
to Lyons, and across Mont Cenis to Leghorn,
where the merchant had decided to wait a favour-
able opportunity of passing into some part of the
Turkish dominions.

" Safie resolved to remain with her father until
the moment of his departure, before which time
the Turk renewed his promise that she should be
united to his deliverer ; and Felix remained with
them in expectation of that event; and in the

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. I73

meantime he enjoyed the society of the Arabian,
who exhibited towards him the simplest and
tenderest affection. They conversed with one
another through the means of an interpreter, and
sometimes with the interpretation of looks ; and
Safie sang to him the divine airs of her native
country.

" The Turk allowed this intimacy to take place,
and encouraged the hopes of the youthful lovers,
while in his heart he had formed far other plans.
He loathed the idea that his daughter should be
united to a Christian; but he feared the resent-
ment of Felix, if he should appear lukewarm ; for
he knew that he was still in the power of his
deliverer, if he should choose to betray him to the
Italian state which they inhabited. He revolved a
thousand plans by which he should be enabled to
prolong the deceit until it might be no longer
necessary, and secretly to take his daughter with
him when he departed. His plans were facilitated
by the news which arrived from Paris.

"The government of France were greatly enraged
at the escape of their victim, and spared no pains
to detect and punish his deliverer. The plot of
Felix was quickly discovered, and De Lacey and
Agatha were thrown into prison. The news
reached Felix, and roused him from his dream of
pleasure. His blind and aged father, and his gentle
sister, lay in a noisome dungeon, while he enjoyed
the free air, and the society of her whom he loved.

174 FRANKENSTEIN; OR,

This idea was torture to him. He quickly arranged
with the Turk, that if tlie latter should find a
favourable opportunity for escape before Felix could
return to Italy, Safie should remain as a boarder
at a convent at Leghorn ; and then, quitting the
lovely Arabian, he hastened to Paris, and delivered
himself up to the vengeance' of the law, hoping to
free De Lacey and Agatha by this proceeding.

" He did not succeed. They remained confined
for five months before the trial took place; the
result of which deprived them of their fortm»e, and
condemned them to a perpetual exile from their
native country.

"They found a miserable asjdum in the cottage
in Germany, where I discovered them. Felix soon
learned that the treacherous Turk, for whom he
and his femily endured such unheard-of oppression,
on discovering that his deliverer was thus reduced
to poverty and ruin, became a traitor to good
feeling and honour, and liad quitted Italy with his
daughter, insultingly sending Felix a pittance of
mone}% to aid him, as he said, in some plan of
future maintenance.

*' Such were the events that preyed on the heart
of Felix, and rendered him, when I first saw him,
the most miserable of his family. He could have
endured poverty ; and while this distress had been
the meed of his virtue, he gloried in it : but the
ingratitude of the Turk, and the loss of his beloved
Safie, were misfortunes more bitter and irreparable.

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. I7>

The arrival of the Arabian now infused new life
into his soul.

"When the news reached Leghorn, that Felix
was deprived of his wealth and rank, the merchant
commanded his daughter to think no more of her
lover, but to prepare to return to her native
country. The generous nature of Safie was out-
raged by this command ; she attempted to expos-
tuiate with her father, but he left her angrily,
reiterating his tyrannical mandate.

"A fewda}'S after, the Turk entered his daughter's
apartment, and told her hastily, that he had reason
to believe that his residence at Leghorn had been
divulged, and that he should speedily be delivered
up to the French government ; he had, conse-
quent!}', hired a vessel to convey him to Constanti-
nople, for which city he should sail in a few hours.
He intended to leave his daughter under the care
of a confidential servant, to follow at her leisure
with the greater part of his property, which had
not yet arrived at Leghorn.

'* When alone, Safie resolved in her own mind
the plan of conduct that it would become her to
pursue in this cmei^ncy. A residence in Turkey
was abhorrent to lier ; her religion and her feelings
w^re ahke adverse to it. By some papers of her
father, which fell into her hands, she beard of the
exile of her lover, and learnt the name of the spot
where he then resided. She hesitated some time,
but at length she formed her determination.

176 FRANKENSTEIN; OR,

Taking With htr some jewels that belonged to her,
and a sum of money, she quitted Italy with an
attendant, a native of Leghorn, but who under-
stood the common language of Turkey, and de-
parted for Germany,

** She arrived in safety at a town about twenty
leagues from the cottage of De Lacey, when her
attendant fell dangerously ill. Safie nursed her
with the most devoted affection ; but the poor girl
died, -and the Arabian was left alone, unacquainted
with the language of the countr}% and utterly igno-
rant of the customs of the world. She fell, how-
ever, into good hands. The Italian had mentioned
the name of the spot for which they were bound ;
and, after her death, the woman of the house in
which they had lived took care that Safie should
arrive in safetj' at the cottage of her lover.

CHAPTER XV.

" Such was the history of my beloved cottagers.
It impressed me deeply. I learned, from the views
of social life which it developed, to admire their
virtues, and to deprecate the vices of mankind.

" As yet I looked upon crime as a distant evil ;
benevolence and generosity were ever present
before me, inciting within me a desire to become
an actor in the busy scene where so many admir-
able qualities were called forth and displayed.

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 1 77

But, in giving an account of the progress of my
intellect, I must not omit a circumstance which
occurred in the beginning of the month of August
of the same year.

" One night, during my accustomed visit to the
neighbouring wood, where I collected my own
food, and brought home firing for my protectors,
I found on the ground a leathern portmanteau,
containing several articles of dress and some books.
I eagerly seized the prize, and returned with it to
my hovel. Fortunately the books were written in
the language, the elements of which I had acquired
at the cottage ; they consisted of * Paradise Lost,'
a volume of * Plutarch's Lives,' and the * Sorrows
of Werter.' The possession of these treasures
gave me extreme delight ; I now continually studied
and exercised my mind upon these histories, whilst
my friends were employed in their ordinary occu-
pations.

" I can hardly describe to you the effect of these
books. They produced in me an infinity of new
images and feelings, that sometimes raised me to
ecstacy, but more frequently sunk me into the
lowest dejection. In the * Sorrows of Werter,'
besides the interest of its simple and affecting story,
so many opinions are canvassed, and so many
lights thrown upon what had hitherto been to me
obscure subjects, that I found in it a never-ending
source of speculation and astonishment. The
gentle and domestic manners it described, combined

178 FRANKEKSTEIN ; OR,

\kith lofty sentiments and feelings, which liad for
their object something out of self, accorded wdi
with my experience among ray protectors, and
with the wants which were for ever alive in my
own bosom. But I thought Werter himself a
more divine being tlian I had ever beheld or ima-
gined ; his character contained no pretension, but
it sunk deep. The disquisitions upon death and
suicide were calculated to fill me with wonder, i
did not pretend to enter into tlie merits of thecase^
yet I incHncd towards the opinions of the hero,
whose extinction I wept, without precisely under-
standing it.

" As I read, however, I apphed much personally
to my own feelings and condition. I foimd my-
self similar, yet at the same time strangdy unlike
to the beings concerning whom I read, ^nd to
whose conversation I was a listener. 1 sympathised
with, and partly understood them, but I vws un-
formed in mind ; I was dependent on none, and
related to none. * The path of my departure was
free ; ' and there was none to lament my anniliiia-
tion. My person was hideous, and my stature
gigantic ? What did this mean ? Who was I ?
What was I? Whence did I come? What was
my destination ? These questions continually re-
curred, but I was unable to solve them.

''The volume of 'Plutarch's Lives,' which I
possessed, contained the histories of the first
founders of the ancient repubUcs. This book liad

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 1 79

a far difFerent effect upon me from the ' Sorrows
of Werter.' I learned from Werter's imaginations
despondency and gloom : but Plutarch taught me
high thoughts ; he elevated me above the wretched
sphere of my own reflections, to admire and love
the heroes of past ages. Many things I read sur-
passed my understanding and experience. I had a
very confused knowledge of kingdoms, wide extents
of country, mighty rivers, and boundless seas.
But I was perfealy unacquainted with towtis, and
large assemblages of men. The cottage of my
protectors had been the only school in which I had
studied human nature ; but this book developed
new and mightier scenes of action. I read of men
concerned in public affairs, governing or massacring
their species. I felt the greatest ardour for virtue
rise within me, and abhorrence for vice, as far as I
understood the signification of those terms, relative
as they were, as I applied them, to pleasure and
pain alone. Induced by these feelings, I was of
course led to admire peaceable lawgivers, Numa,.
Solon, and Lycurgus, in preference to Romulus
and Theseus. The patriarchal lives of my pro-
tectors caused these impressions to take a firm hold
on my mind ; perhaps, if my first introduction to
humanity had been made by a }'oung soldier,
burning for glory and slaughter, I should have
been imbued with different sensations.

" But ' Paradise Lost ' excited different and far
deeper emotions. I read it, as I had read the other

l8o FRANKENSTEIN; OR,

volumes which had fallen into my hands, as a true
history. It moved every feeling of wonder and
awe, that the picture of an omnipotent God warring
with His creatures was capable of exciting. I often
referred the several situations, as their similarity
struck me, to my own. Like Adam, I was ap-
parently united by no link to any other being in
existence ; but his state was far different from mine
in every other respect. He had come forth from
the hands of God a perfect creature, happy and
prosperous, guarded by the especial care of his
Creator ; he was allowed to converse with, and
acquire knowledge from, beings of a superior
nature : but I was wretched, helpless, and alone.
Many times I considered Satan as the fitter emblem
of my condition ; for often, hke him, when I viewed
the bliss of my protectors, the bitter gall of envy
rose within me.

"Another circumstance strengthened and con-
firmed these feelings. Soon after my arrival in the
hovel, I discovered some papers in the pocket of the
dress which I had taken from your kboratory. At
first I had neglected them ; but now that I was
able to decipher the characters in which they were
written, I began to study them with diligence. It
was your journal of the four months that preceded
my creation. You minutely described in thesepapers
every step you took in the progress of your work ;
this history was mingled with accounts of domestic
occurrences. You^ doubtless, recollect these papers.

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. l8l

Here they are. Everything is related in them
which bears reference to my accursed origin ; the
whole detail of that series of disgusting circum-
stances which produced it, is set in view ; the
minutest description of my odious and loathsome
person is given, in language which painted your own
horrors, and rendered mine indelible. I sickened
as I read. * Hateful day when I received life I ' I
exclaimed in agony. * Accursed creator! Why
did you form a monster so hideous that even you
turned from me in disgust ? God, in pity, made
man beautiful and alluring, after His own image ;
but my form is a filthy type of yours, more horrid
even from the very resemblance. Satan had his
companions, fellow-devils, to admire and encourage
him ; but I am solitary and abhorred.'

"These were the reflections of my hours of
despondency and solitude ; but when I contem-
plated the virtues of the cottagers, their amiable
and benevolent dispositions, I persuaded myself
that when they should become acquainted with
my admiration of their virtues, they would compas-
sionate me, and overlook my personal deformity.
Could they turn from their door one, however
monstrous, who solicited their compassion and
friendship? I resolved, at least, not to despair,
but in every way to fit myself for an interview
with them which would decide my fate. I post-
poned this attempt for some months longer ; for
the importance attached to its success inspired me

l82 FRANKENSTEIN; OR,

with a dread lest I should fail. Besides, I found
that my understanding improved so much with
every day's experience, that 1 was unwilling to
commence this undertaking until a few more
months should have added to my sagacity.

"Several charges, in the meantime, took place
in the cottage. The presence of Safie difiused
happiness among its inhabitants ; and I also found
that a greater degree of ^ plenty reigned there.
Felix and Agatlia spent more time in amusement
and conversation, and "w^tq assisted in their labours
by servants. They did not appear rich, but they
were contented and happy; their feeliogs were
serene and peaceful, while mine became every day
morfr tumultuous. Increase of knowledge only
discovered to me more clearly what a wretched
outcast I was. I cherished hope, it is true ; but
it vanished, when I beheld my person reflected in
water, or my shadow in the moonsliine, even as
that frail image and that inconstant shade.

*'I endeavoured to crush tliese fears, and to
fortify myself for the trial which in a few months
I resolved to undergo ; and sometimes I allowed
my thoughts, unchecked by reason, to ramble in
the fields of Paradise, and dared to fancy amiable
and lovely creatures sympathising with my feelings,
and cheering my gloom ; their angelic countenances
breathed smiles of consolation. But it was all a
dream ; no Eve soothed my sorrows, nor shared
my thoughts ; I was alone. I remembered Adam's

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 183

supplication to his Creator. But where was mine ?
He had abandoned me ; and, in the bitterness of
my heart, I cursed him.

"Autumn passed thus. I saw, with surprise
and grief, the leaves decay and fall, and nature
again assume the barren and bleak appearance it
had worn when I first beheld the woods and the
lovely moon. Yet I did not heed the bleakness
of the weather ; I was better fitted by my confc^rma-
tion for the endurance of cold than heat. But my
chief delights were the sight of the flowers, the
birds, and all the gay apparel of summer ; when
those deserted me, I turned ^nth more attention
towards the cottagers. Their happiness was not
decreased by the absence of summer. They loved,
and sympathised with one another ; and their joys,
depending on each other, were not interrupted by
the casualties that took place around them. The
more I saw of tlietn, the greater became my desire
to claim their protection and kindness ; my heart
jreamed to be known and loved by these amiable
creatures : to see their sweet looks directed towards
me with affection, was the utmost limit of my
ambition. I dared not think that they would turn
them from me with disdain and horror. The poor
that stopped at their door were never driven away.
I asked, it is true, for greater treasures than a little
food or rest ; I required kindness and sympathy ;
but I did not believe myself utterly un^^^rthy of it.

** The winter advanced, and an entire revolution

184 FRANKENSTEIN; OR,

of the seasons had taken place since I awoke into
life. My attention, at this time, was solely directed
towards my plan of introducing myself into the
cottage of my protectors. I revolved many pro-
jects; but that on which I finally fixed was, to
enter the dwelling when the blind old man should
be alone. I had sagacity enough to discover, that
the unnatural hideousness of my person was the
chief object of horror with those who had formerly
beheld me. My voice, although harsh, had nothing
terrible in it ; I thought, therefore, that if, in the
absence of his children, I could gain the good- will
and mediation of the old De Lacey, I might, by his
means, be tolerated by my younger protectors.

** One day, when the sun shone on the red leaves
that strewed the ground, and diffused cheerfulness,
although it denied warmth, Safie, Agatha, and Felix
departed on a long countr}' walk, and the old man,
at his own desire, was left alone in the cottage.
When his children had departed, he took up his
guitar, and played several mournful but sweet airs,
more sweet and mournful than I had ever heard
him play before. At first his countenance was
illuminated with pleasure, but, as he continued,
thoughtfulness and sadness succeeded ; at length,
laying aside the instrument, he sat absorbed in
reflection.

" My heart beat quick ; this was the hour and
moment of trial, which would decide my hopes,
or realise my fears. The servants were gone to a

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. l8>

neighbouring fair. All was silent in and around
the cottage :. it was an excellent opportunity ; yet,
when I proceeded to execute my plan, my limbs
failed me, and I sank to the ground. Again I
rose ; and, exerting all the firmness of which I
was master, removed the planks which I had placed
before my hovel to conceal my retreat. The fresh
air revived me, and, with renewed determination,
I approached the door of their cottage.

" I knocked. * Who is there ? ' said the old man
— ' Come in.*

" I entered ; ' Pardon this intrusion/ said I : * I
am a traveller in want of a little rest ; you would
greatly oblige me, if you would allow me to re-
main a few minutes before the fire.*

"* Enter,' said De Lacey; 'and I will try in
what manner I can relieve your wants ; but, un-
fortunately, my children are from home, and, as
I am blind, I am afraid I shall find it difficuh to
procure food for you.'

*" Do not trouble yourself, my kind host, I have
food ; it is warmth and rest only that I need.'

*' I sat down, and a silence ensued. I knew that
every minute was precious to me, yet I remained
irresolute in what manner to commence the inter-
view; when the old man addressed me—* By
your language, stranger, I suppose you are my
countryman ;— are you French?'

" * No ; but I was educated by a French family,
and understand that language only. I am now

l86 FRANKENSTEIN; OR,

going to claim the protection of some friends,
whom I sincerely love, and of whose favour I have
some hopes.'

*• * Are they Germans ? '

***No, they are French. But let us change
the subject. I am an unfortunate and deserted
creature ; I look around, and I have no relation or
friend upon earth. These amiable pe(q)le to whom
I go have never seen me, and know little of me.
I am full of fears ; for if I fail there, I am an
outcast in the world for ever.*

" * Do not despair. To be friendless is indeed
to be unfortunate ; but the hearts of men, when
unprejudiced by any obvious self-interest, are full
of brotherly love and charity. Rely, therefore, on
your hopes ; and if these friends are good and
amiable, do not despair.'

" 'They are kind — they are the most excellent
creatures in the world ; but, unfortunately, they
are prejudiced against me. I have good dispo-
sitions ; my life has been hitherto harmless, and in
some degree benefkiai ; but a fetal prejudice clouds
their eyes, and where they ought to sec a feeling
and kind friend, they behold only a detestable
monster.*

*• ' That is indeed unfortunate ; but if you are
really blameless, cannot you undeceive them ? *

" * I am about to undertake that task ; and it is
on that account that I feel so many overwhelming
terrors. I tenderly love these friends; I havc»

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 1 87

unknown to them, been for many months in tlie
liabits of daily kindness towards them ; but- they
believe that I wish to injure them, and it is that
prejudice which I wish to overcome/

*' * Where do these friends reside ? '

" ' Near this spot.'

" The old man paused, and then continued — * If
you will unreservedly confide to me the particu-
lars of your tale, I perhaps may be of use in un-
deceiving them. I am blind, and cannot judge of
\*our countenance, but there is something in your
words, which persuades me that you are sincere.
I am poor, and an exile ; but it will aflford me true
pleasure to be in any way serviceable to a human
creature.'

** * Excellent man ! I thank you, and accept your
generous offer. You raise me from the dust by
this kindness ; and I trust that, by your aid, I shall
not be driven from the society and sympathy of
your fellow-creatures.'

*' * Heaven forbid I even if you were really
criminal ; for that can only drive you to despera-
tion, and not instigate you to virtue. I also am un-
fortunate ; I and my ^mily have been condemned,
although itmocent : judge, therefore, if I do not
feel for your misfortunes.'

" ' How can I thank you, my best atk! only
benefactor ? From your lips first have I heard the
voice of kindness directed towards me; I shall
be for ever grateful ; and your present humanity

l88 FRANKENSTEIN; OR,

assures me of success with those friends whom I
am on the point of meeting.'

** * May I know the names and residence of those
friends ? '

" I paused. This, I thought, was the moment
of decision, which was to rob me of, or bestow
happiness on me for ever. I struggled vainly for
firmness sufficient to answer him, but the effort
destroyed all my remaining strength ; I sank on
the chair, and sobbed aloud. At that moment I
heard the steps of my younger protectors. I had
not a moment to lose ; but, seizing the hand of the
old man, I cried, *Now is the time! — save and
protect me 1 You and your family are the friends
whom I seek. Do not you desert me in the hour
of trial!'

** * Great God ! ' exclaimed the old man, * who
are you ? '

"At that instant the cottage door was opened,
and Felix, Safie, and Agatha entered. Who can
describe their horror and consternation on beholding
me ? Agatha fainted ; and Safie, unable to attend
to her friend, rushed out of the cottage. Felix
darted forward, and with supernatural force tore
me from his father, to whose knees I clung : in a
transport of fury, he dashed me to the ground, and
struck me violently with a stick. I could have torn
him limb from limb, as the lion rends the antelope.
But my heart sunk within me as with bitter sick-
ness, and I refrained. I saw him on the point of

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 1 89

repeating his blow, when, overcome by pain and
anguish, I quitted the cottage, and in the general
tumult escaped unperceived to my hovel.

CHAPTER XVI.

* ' Cursed, cursed creator I Why did I live ? Why,
in that instant, did I not extinguish the spark of
existence which you had so wantonly bestowed ?
I know not ; despair had not yet taken possession
of me ; my feelings were those of rage and revenge.
I could with pleasure have destroyed the cottage
and its inhabitants, and have glutted myself with
their shrieks and misery.

** When night came, I quitted my retreat, and
wandered in the wood ; and now, no longer re-
strained by the fear of discovery, I gave vent to my
anguish in fearful bowlings. I was like a wild
beast that had broken the toils; diestroying the
objects that obstructed me, and ranging through
the wood with a stag-like swiftness. Oh ! what
a miserable night I passed ; the cold stars shone in
mockery, and the bare trees waved their branches
above me : now and then the sweet voice of a
bird burst forth amidst the universal stillness. All,
save I, were at rest or in enjoyment : I, like the
arch-fiend, bore a hell within me ; and, finding
myself unsympathised with, wished to tear up the

190 FRANKENSTEIN ; OR,

trees, spread havoc and destruction ailDund me, and
then to have sat down and enjoyed the ruin.

" But this was a luxury of sensation that could
not endure ; I became fatigued with excess of bodily
exertion, and sank on the damp grass in the sick
impotence of despair. There was none among the
myriads of men that existed who would pity or
assist me ; and should I feel kindness towards my
enemies ? No : from that moment I declared ever-
lasting war against the species, and, more than all,
against him who had formed me, and sent me
forth to this insupportable misery.

" The sun rose ; I heard the voices of men ; and
knew that it was impossible to return to my retreat
during that day. Accordingly I hid myself in some
thick underwood, determining to devote the en-
suing hours to reflection on my simation.

" The pleasant sunshine, and the pure air of day,
restored me to some degree of tranquillity ; and
when I considered what had passed at the cottage,
I could not help believing that I had been too hasty
in my conclusions. I had certainly acted impru-
dently. It was apparent that my conversation had
interested the father in my behalf, and I was a fool
in having exposed my person to the horror of his
children. I ought to have familiarised the old De
Lacey to me, and by degrees to have discovered
myself to the rest of his family, when they should
have been prepared for' my approach. But I did
not believe my errors to be irretrievable ; and, after

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. I9I

much consideration, I resolved to return to the
cottage, seek the old man, and by my representa-
tions win him to my party.

** These thoughts calmed me, and in the after-
noon I sank into a profound sleep ; but the ferer
of my blood did not allow me to be visited by
peaceful dreams. The horrible scene of the pre-
ceding day was for ever acting before my eyes ;
the females were flying, and the enraged Felix
tearing me from his father's feet. I awoke ex-
hausted ; and, finding that it was already night, 1
crept forth from my hiding-place, and went in
search of food.

** When my hunger was appeased, I directed my
steps towards the well-known path that conducted
to the cottage. All there was at peace. I crept
into my hovel, and remained in silent expectation
of the accustomed hour when the family arose.
That hour passed, the sun mounted high in the
heavens, but the cottagers did not appear. I
trembled violently, apprehending some dreadful
misfortune. The inside of the cottage was dark,
and I heard no motion; I cannot describe the
agony of this suspense.

"Presently two countrymen passed by; but,
pausing near the cottage, they entered into con-
versation, using violent gesticulations; but I did
not understand what they said, as they spoke tlie
language of the country, which differed from that
of my protectors. Soon after, however, Felix

192 FRANKENSTEIN ; OR,

approached with another man : I was surprised,
as I knew that he had not quitted the cottage
that morning, and waited anxiously to discover,
from his discourse, the meaning of these unusual
appearances.

" * Do you consider,' said his companion to him,
*that you will be obliged to pay three months'
rent, and to lose the produce of your garden ? I
do not wish to take any unfair advantage, and I
beg therefore that you will take some days to
consider of j^our determination.'

" * It is utterly useless,' replied Felix ; * we can
never again inhabit your cottage. The life of my
father is in the greatest danger, owing to the
dreadful circumstance that I have related. My
wife and my sister will never recover their horror.
I entreat you not to reason with me any more.
Take possession of your tenement, and let me
fly from this place.'

*' Felix trembled violently as he said this. He
and his companion entered the cottage, in which
they remained for a few minutes, and then departed.
I never saw any of the family of De Lacey more.

" I continued for the remainder of the day in my
hovel in a state of utter and stupid despair. My
protectors had departed, and had broken the only
link that held me to the world. For the first time
the feelings of revenge and hatred filled my bosom,
and I did not strive to control them ; but, allowing
myself to be borne away by the stream, I bent my

^^

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. I93

mind towards injury and death. When I thought
of my friends, of the mild voice of De Lacey, the
gentle eyes of Agatha, and the exquisite beauty
of the Arabian, these thoughts vanished, and a
gush of tears somewhat soothed me. But again,
when I reflected that they had spumed and deserted
me, anger returned, a rage of anger ; and, unable to
injure anything human, I turned my fury towards
inanimate objects. As night advanced, I placed a
variety of combustibles around the cottage ; and,
after having destroyed every vestige of cultivation in
the garden, I waited with forced impatience until
the moon had sunk to commence my operations.

"As the night advanced, a fierce wind arose
from the woods, and quickly dispersed the clouds
that had loitered in the heavens: the blast tore
along like a mighty avalanche, and produced a kind
of insanity in my spirits, that burst all bounds of
reason and reflection. I lighted the dry branch
of a tree, and danced with fury around the devoted
cottage, my eyes still fixed on the western horizon,
the edge of which the moon nearly touched. A
part of its orb was at length hid, and I waved my
brand ; it sunk, and, with a loud scream, I fired
the straw, and heath, and bushes, which I had
collected. The wind fanned the fire, and the
cottage was quickly enveloped by the flames, which
clung to it, and licked it with their forked and
destroying tongues.

'* As soon as I was convinced that no assistance
(31) G

I

1^4 PRASIKENST^M 4 OR)

couM -save any part of tiae iiabitation, I qaiited the
scene, sixi sougiit for refuge in the woods.

" And now, whh the woiid beffore me, whither
should J tend ray :steps ? I resolved to fly far from
the sceoeiof my ndsforttmes; hut tx9 me, hated and
des^isod, every ooantry must be eqnaify horrible.
At lengdi tine thought of yrou crossed my naind.
1 learned irom }iour papers that yon were toy fiufeer,
my creator; and to whom couldlappjiy wkh more
dijftess than /to him who had ^iven me life ? Among
the lessons titat Pelix hxd bestowed ispoia Sa^
Igeogra^iby had not been Kinniitced : I had learned
from these the rdatavie -situdtionis of id&e «difienent
<0Qnttihe6 of the earth. You had mentioned
Geneva as the mame cf your native 4own ; and
towards tins place I nesolved to proceed,

** But hfcw was I to direct mysdf ? I knew that
I must travel hi ;a south- westerly 'direct ixz)n to reach
my idestination:; bstut ithe sun w:as my only tguide. I
did j!)ot 4bdow cibe names nf t^ie mwm that I was
to pass thromgh, nor could I askiinfonnation frcxn a
single hujman being ; but il did not despair. From
you 'Only iconki I liope ior succour, although
Siowands y/aa i fdt no sentiment hut that of hattred.
(Jnfeeliag, heartless cireator! you had endowed
one with perceptions and passions, and then cast
ame abroad ,an object for the scorn and hotror of
mankind. But on you only liad I any daini
for pity and redress, and from yon I determined
to seek that justice which I vainly attempted to

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 1 95

gain from any other being that wore the human
form.

*'My travels were Jong, and the sufferings I
endured intense. It -was late in atrtunm when I
quitted the dtstiia w^^re I had so long resided.
1 travelled only at niglit, fearful of encountering
the visage of a "human being. Nature <kcayed
arotmd me, and the sun became heafless; rain
and snow poured around me ; mighty rivers were
frozen ; the surface of the earth was hard, and chill,
and bare, and I found no shelter. Oh, earth ! how
often did I imprecate curses on the cause of my
being I Hie mildness of my nature had fled, and
all within me was turned to gall and bitterness.
The nearer I approached to yxmr habitation the
more deeply did I feel tlie spirit of revenge en-
kindled in my heart. Snow fell, and the waters
were hardened ; but I rested not. A few incidents
now and then directed me, and I possessed a map
of the country ; but I often wandered wide from
my path . The agony of my feelings allowed me no
respite ; no incident occurred from which my rage
and misery could not extract its food ; but a cir-
cumstance that happened wlien I arrived on tlie con-
fines of Switzerland, when the sun had Teco\'ered its
warmth, and the earth again began to look green,
confirmed in an especial manner the bitterness and
horror of my feelings.

** I generally rested during the day, and travelled
only when I was secured by night from the view of

196 FRANKENSTEIN; OR,

man. One morning, however, finding that my
path lay through a deep wood, I ventured to con-
tinue my journey after the sun had risen ; the day,
which was one of the first of spring, cheered even
me by the loveliness of its sunshine and the balmi-
ness of the air. I felt emotions of gentleness and
pleasure, that had long appeared dead, revive within
me. Half surprised by the novelty of these sensa-
tions, I allowed myself to be borne away by them ;
and, forgetting my solitude and deformity, dared
to be happy. Soft tears again bedewed my cheeks,
and I even raised my humid eyes with thankfulness
towards the blessed sun which bestowed such joy
upon me.

" I continued to wind among the paths of the
wood, until I came to its boundary, which was
skirted by a deep and rapid river, into which many
of the trees bent their branches, now budding with
the fresh spring. Here I paused, not exactly know-
ing what path to pursue, when I heard the sound
of voices, that induced me to conceal myself under
the shade of a cypress. I was scarcely hid, when
a young girl came running towards the spot where
I was concealed, laughing, as if she ran from some
one in sport. She continued her course along the
precipitous sides of the river, when suddenly her
foot slipped, and she fell into the rapid stream. I
rushed from my hiding-place ; and, with extreme
labour from the force of the current, saved her, and
dragged her to shore. She was senseless ; and I

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 1 97

endeavoured, by every means in my power, to
restore animation, when I was suddenly inter-
rupted by the approach of a rustic, who was pro-
bably the person from whom she had playfully fled.
On seeing me, he darted towards me, and tearing
the girl from my arms, hastened towards the deeper
parts of the wood. I followed speedily, I hardly
knew why ; but when the man saw me draw near,
he aimed a gun, which he carried, at my body, and
fired. I sunk to the ground, and my injurer, with
increased swiftness, escaped into the wood.

*' This was then the reward of my benevolence I
I had saved a human being from destruction, and,
as a recompense, I now writhed under the miserable
pain of a wound, which shattered the flesh and
bone. The feelings of kindness and gentleness,
which I had entertained but a few moments before,
gave place to hellish rage and gnashing of teeth.
Inflamed by pain, I vowed eternal hatred and ven-
geance to all mankind . But the agony of my wound
overcame me ; my pulses paused, and I fainted.

*'For some weeks I led a miserable life in the
woods, endeavouring to cure the wound which I
had received. The ball had entered my shoulder,
and I knew not whether it had remained there or
passed through ; at any rate I had no means of
extracting it. My sufferings were augmented also
by the oppressive sense of the injustice and ingrati-
tude of their infliction. My daily vows rose for
revenge — a deep and deadly revenge, such as would

198 FRANKEKSTEm; OK,

alone compensate for the outrages and anguisk I
had endured.

''After some weeks my wound healed, and I
continued nay joum^. The labours- 1 endured
were no loiager ta be alleviated by the bright sun
or gentk breezes of sprii^ ; aU joy was but a
mockery, which insulted my desolate state, and
made me feel more painfully that I was not made
for the enjojntnent of pleasure,

<^ But osy tcnls now drew near a close ; and, in
two months from this time, I reached the cn.TiroQS
of Geneva.

" It was evening when 1 arrived, and I retired
to a hiding-place among the fields that surround
it^ to meditate in what manner I should apply ta
you. I was oppressed by fatigue and hunger, and
far too unhappy to enjpy the gentle breezes of
evening,, or the prospect of the sun setting behind
the stupendous mountains of Jura.

'* At this time a ^ght sleep relieved me from
the paiLEL of reflection, which was disturbed by the
approach of a beautiful child, who came running
into the recess I had chosen, with all the spcMrtive-
ness of infancy. Suddenly, as I giized on him, aj^
idea seized me, that this little creature was unpre-
judiced, and had lived too short a time to have
imbibed a horror of deformity. If, therefore, I could
seize him, and educate him as my companion and
friend, I should not be so desolate in this peopled
earth.

THE MODERN F&OMETHEUS. 199^

" Urged by this iraipufce, I seized 00 the bojr as
he passed, and drew him towards me. As soon as
he bchdd my form^ be placed his hands before his^
eyesy and uttered a shnll icream : 1 drew his^hand.
forcibly from his face, and said, ' Ch^ what is the
meaasing of this? I da Boot intend to hurt you v
Ibten to. me;*

* ' He stroggled victently . * Let sne go,' he cried ;-
^ monster I ugly wvetcb ! 3rDU wish to eat me, and?
tear nae to pieces — yon are aa c^rc— let me go, or
I will tcD my papa.'

" ' Boy,, yoa will never see your father again ;.
you. must come with me.*

^' ' Hideotis monster I let roe go. My papa is ai
Syndic — he is M. Frankenstein — ^be vnlA punish.
you. You dare not keep noe.*

*' * Frankenstein 1; you belong then to my enemy
— to him towards whom I have sworn eternaH
revenge ; you shall be my first victim.'

" The diild still struggled, and loaded me wiri>
epithets wliich carried despair to my heart ;• I
grasped his throat to silence him, and in a moment
he lay dead at my feet.

*' I gazed on my victim, and my heart swelled
with exultation and hellisli triumph : clappings my
hands, I exclaimed, ^I, too, can create desolation ;.
my enemy is not invulnerable ; tlMS death wiH carry
despair to him, and a thousand other miseides shaUl
torment and destroy him,'

*' As I fixed my eyes on the child, I saw some-

200 FRANKENSTEIN ; OR,

thing glittering on his breast. I took it ; it was a
portrait of a most lovely woman. In spite of my
malignity, it softened and attracted me. For a few
moments I gazed with delight on her dark eyes,
fringed by deep lashes, and her lovely lips; but
presently my rage returned : I remembered that I
was for ever deprived of the delights that such
beautiful creatures could bestow; and that she
whose resemblance I contemplated would, in re-
garding me, have changed that air of divine be-
nignity to one expressive of disgust and affright.

* * Can you wonder that such thoughts transported
me with rage ? I only wonder that at that moment,
instead of venting my sensations in exclamations
and agony, I did not rush among mankind, and
perish in the attempt to destroy them.

** While I was overcome by these feelings, I left
the spot where I had committed the murder, and
seeking a more secluded hiding-place, I entered a
barn which had appeared to me to be empty. A
woman was sleeping on some straw; she was
young : not indeed so beautiful as her whose por-
trait I held ; but of an agreeable aspect, and bloom-
ing in the loveliness of youth and health. Here,
I thought, is one of those whose joy-imparting
smiles are bestowed on all but me. And then I
bent over her, and whispered, * Awake, fairest, thy
lover is near — he who would give his life but to
obtain one look of affection from thine eyes : my
beloved, awake ! '

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 201

" The sleeper stirred ; a thrill of terror ran
through me. Should she indeed awake, and see
me, and curse me, and denounce the murderer ?
Thus would she assuredly act, if her darkened eyes
opened, and she beheld me. The thought was
madness; it stirred the fiend within me—not I,
but she shall suffer ; the murder I have committed
because I am for ever robbed of all that she could
give me, she shall atone. The crime had its source
in her : be hers the punishment ! Thanks to the
lessons of Felix and the sanguinary laws of man, I
had learned now to work mischief. I bent over
her, and placed the portrait securely in one of the
folds of her dress. She moved again, and I fled.

" For some days I haunted the spot where these
scenes had taken place ; sometimes wishing to see
you, sometimes resolved to quit the world and its
miseries for ever. At length I wandered towards
these mountains, and have ranged through their
immense recesses, consumed by a burning passion
which you alone can gratify. We may not part
until you have promised to comply with my requi-
sition. I am alone, and miserable ; man will not
associate with me ; but one as deformed and horrible
as myself would not deny herself to me. My com-
panion must be of the same species, and have the
same defects. This being you must create."

202 FRANKENSTEIN; OR,

CHAPTER XVII.

The beir^g finished speaking and fixed Ins looks
upon me in expectation of a reply. But I was
i)ewildered, perplexed, and unable to rarrange my
ideas sufficiently to understand die full extent of
ibis proposition. He continued — " Yon must create
a female for me, with whom I can live in the
in-terchange of those sympathies necessary for my
iseing. This you alone cam do ; and I demand it
of you as a right which you must not refuse to
concede."

The latter partof Jiis tale had kindled anewiai
nie the anger that had died away while he narrated
his peaceful life among tlie cottagers, and, as he
said this, I could no longer suppress (the rage that
homed within ame.

** Ido refuse it," I replied ; ** aud no tortnre shall
ever extort a consent from me. You may render
me the most miserable of men, but you -shall never
make me base in my own eyes. Shall I create
amxtherlike 3-ourself, whose joint wickedness might
desolate tlie world ? Begone I I have answered
3XXU ; 3^ou,may torture me, but I will never consent."

**You are in the wrong," ^repdied the fiend;
**.and, instead of threatenmg, I am contremt to
reason witli you. I am malicious because I am
miserable. Am I not shunned and hated by all
mankind? You, my creator, would tear me to
pieces, and triumph ; remember that, and tell me

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 203

why I should pity man more than he pities iwe ?
You would not call it murder, if yooi <:ould pre-
cipitate me into one of those ice-rifts, and desftroy.
my frame, the work of your own hands. Shall I
respect man, when iae contemns me? Let him
live with me in the interchamgte of ^ndness ; ;and,
instead of injury, I would bestow eveiy benefit
upon him with tears of gratitude at his aoceptas^ce.
But that cannot be ; tlie human -senses are iiwur-
mountable barriers to our union. Yet onine -shall
not be the submission of abject slavery. I will
revenge my injuries : if I cannot inspire kwe, I
will cause fear ; and chiefly towards you my arch-
enemy, because my creator, do I swear inextinguish-
able hatred. Have a care : I will work at your
tiestruction, nor finish until I desolate your heart,
so that you shall curse the hour of your birth."

A fiendish rage animated him as he said this ;
his face was wrinkled into contortions too horrible
for human e3res to bdaold ; but presently be calmed
himself and proceeded — "I intended to reason.
This passion is detrimental to me ; for you do not
refkct that you are the cause of its excess. If any
bemg felt emotions of irenevolence towards me, I
should return them an hundred and an hundred
fc^d ; for that one creature's satke, I would make
peace with the whole kind 1 But I now indulge
in dreams of bliss that cannot be realised. Wiiat
I ask of you is reasonable and moderate ; I demand
a feature of another sex, but as hideous as myself;

204 FRANKENSTEIN ; OR,

the gratification is small, but it is all that I can
receive, and it shall content me. It is true, we
shall be monsters, cut oflf from all the world ; but
on that account we shall be more attached to one
another. Our lives will not be happy, but they
^^^ll be harmless, and free from the misery I now
feel. Oh ! my creator, make me happy ; let me
feel gratitude towards you for one benefit ! Let
me see that I excite the sympathy of some existing
thing ; do not deny me my request I "

I was moved. I shuddered when I thought
of the possible consequences of my consent ; but
I felt that there was some justice in his argu-
ment. His tale, and the feelings he now expressed,
proved him to be a creature of fine sensations ;
and did I not, as his maker, owe him all the portion
of happiness that it was in my power to bestow ?
He saw my change of feeHng, and continued — ** If
you consent, neither you nor any other human
being shall ever see us again : I will go to the
vast wilds of South America. My food is not
that of man ; I do not destroy the lamb and the
kid to glut my appetite ; acorns and berries afford
me sufficient nourishment. My companion will
be of the same nature as myself, and will be con-
tent with the same fare. We shall make our bed
of dried leaves ; the sun will shine on us as on
man, and will ripen our food. The picture I
present to you is peaceful and human, and you
must feel that you could deny it only in the wan-

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 20$

tonness of power and cruelty. Pitiless as you have
been towards me, I now see compassion in your
eyes; let me seize the favourable moment, and
persuade you to promise what I so ardently desire."

'* You propose," replied I, " to fly from the habi-
tations of man, to dwell in those wilds where the
beasts of the field will be your only companions.
How can you, who long for the love and sympathy
of man, persevere in this exile? You will return,
and again seek their kindness, and you will meet
with their detestation ; your evil passions will be
renewed, and you will then have a companion to
aid you in the task of destruction. This may not
be ; cease to argue the point, for I cannot consent."

**How inconstant are your feelings! but a
moment ago you were moved by my representa-
tions, and why do you again harden yourself to my
complaints ? I swear to you, by the earth which
I inhabit, and by you that made me, that, with
the companion you bestow, I will quit the neigh-
bourhood of man, and dwell as it may chance, in
the most savage of places. My evil passions will
have fled, for I shall meet with sympathy ! my
life will flow quietly away, and, in my dying
moments, I shall not curse my maker."

His words had a strange effect upon me. I
compassionated him, and sometimes felt a wish to
console him ; but when I looked upon him, when
I saw the filthy mass that moved and talked, my
heart sickened, and my feelings were altered to

206 FRANKENSTEIN; OR,

tboae of horror and hatred.. 1 tried to stifle diese
seiftsatians.;. 1 thought, tliat as I could not syn^
pathise. with him,. I had no right to withhold fK»n.
hina: the smaU portion, of happiness which wa& yet
in my power to bestow.

*'You s>**ear," 1 said^ **to be^ harmless ; bat
hawe you not already shown a degree of maiice itet
shouiK^ rei^onably make me distrust you. B Maty noi
evemi this bje ai feint that will increase- yotnr triumph
by afFocding a wider scope for your revenge.."

'*^How is. tins?- I m)ust not be trifled with :
and I diemand aa answer. If I have no ties, and
no aE^ctioD5, hatredi aooid vice must be my portion ;
tlifi love o£ anodicr will destroy tlie cause o£ my
crinaes, and I shall become a thing, of whose exist-
ence every one will be ignorant. My vices are the
children. o( a forced solitude that I abhor y and my
virtues widl necessarily arise when I Irve in coni-
muoicni witli an equal. I shall feel the affections,
of a sensitive being, and become linked ta the
chain. o£ existence and events,, from which: I am.
aow excluded."

I paused some time to< reflect on all be had
rekted, and the various arguments which he had
employed. I thought of the promise of virtues.
which he had displayed, on tlie opening of his
existence^, and the subsequent blight of all kindly
feehng by the loathing and scorn which l»s pro-
tectors kiad manifested towards him. His power
and threats were not onmtted in my calculations ;

THE. MODERN PROMETHEyS. 20J

a creature who could' exist in tire ice-caves of the
glaciers,, aanid: hide himself frcim pursuit among tlie
ridges of inaccessible prcdpices, was a being pos-
sessiiiig faicui'ties it would* be vain- to cope with.
After a' long pause of reflection, I concluded that
thejii^ce.due both to hinvand my fellow-creatures
demanded of me: tliat I should comply with his
ropiest. Turning to him, therefee, I said — " I
consent to your demand, on your solemn oath to
quk Europe for ever, and every other place in the
nciglibourhood of man, as soon as I shall deliver
iMD^ your hands- a female who will accompany you
in yocur exile.'*

"I swear," he cried, ** by the sun, and by the-
Wine sky of Heaveni, and by the fire of love- that
burns my heart, that if you grant my prayer, while-
they exist you.shall never beh?old me again*. Depart
to your home, and commence your labours : I sliall'
watch their progress with unucteTaibl'e anxiety ; and
feaar aotbut that when youare ready I shall appear.^

Saying i?his, he suddenly quitted me, fearfol,
perhapSy of any change in my sentiments. I saw
him descend the mountain wilii greater speed than:
the: flrglxti of an eagle^ and quickly lost among the
undulations; of tlie. sea of ice.

His taie had occupied' the whole day, and the-
sua: was upon the verge of the horizon when
he departed. 1' knew that I ought to hasten my
descem towards the valley, as I shouid soon be
encompassed in darkness; but my heart was

208 FRANKENSTEIN ; OR,

heavy, and my steps slow. The labour of wind-
ing among the little paths of the mountains, and
fixing my feet firmly as I advanced, perplexed me,-
occupied as I was by the emotions which the occur-
rences of the day had produced. Night was far
advanced, when I came to the half-way resting-
place, and seated myself beside the fountain. The
stars shone at intervals, as the clouds passed from
over them ; the dark pines rose before me, and
every liere and there a broken tree lay on the
ground ; it was a scene of wonderful solemnity,
and stirred strange thoughts within me. I wept
bitterly; and clasping my hands in agony, I
exclaimed, '* Oh ! stars and clouds, and winds,
ye are all about to mock me ; if ye really pity me,
crush sensation and memory ; let me become as
nought ; but if not, depart, depart, and leave me
in darkness."

Tliese were wild and miserable thoughts ; but I
cannot describe to you how the eternal twinkling
of the stars weighed upon me, and how I listened
to every blast of wind, as if it were a dull ugly
siroc on its way to consume me.

Morning dawned before I arrived at the village
of Chamounix ; I took no rest, but returned imme-
diately to Geneva. Even in my own heart I could
give no expression to my sensations — they weighed
on me with a mountain's weight, and their excess
destroyed my agony beneath them. Thus I
returned home, and entering the house, presented

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 2O9

myself to the family. My haggard and wild appear-
ance awoke intense alarm ; but I answered no ques-
tion, scarcely did I speak. I felt as if I were placed
under a ban — as if I had no right to claim their
sympathies — as if never more might I enjoy com-
panionship with them. Yet even thus I loved
them to adoration ; and to save them, I resolved
to dedicate myself to my most abhorred task.
The prospect of such an occupation made every
other circumstance of existence pass before me like
a dream ; and that thought only had to me the
reality of life.

CHAPTER XVIII.

Day after day, week after week, passed away on
my return to Geneva ; and I could not collect the
courage to recommence my work, I feared the ven-
geance of the disappointed fiend, yet I was unable
to overcome my repugnance to the task which was
enjoined me. I found that I could not compose
a female without again devoting several months
to profound study and laborious disquisition. I
had heard of some discoveries having been made
by an English philosopher, the knowledge of which
was material to my success, and I sometimes
thought of obtaining my father's consent to visit
England for this purpose; but I clung to every
pretence of delay, and shrunk from taking the first

2IO FRAKKJENSTEIK; OR,

Step in an. unidectaking wliose immediate necessity
began, to appear less absohiite ta me. A change
indeed had taken plajce in me : my lieohliii, which
had hitherto dccHned^ was now mudx restored*^
and my spirits,. when unchecked by the njcmoiry of
my -unhappy promise,, rose proportionably. Mjp
fo-ther saw this change wkh pleasune^ and hetiuimedf
hi& thoughts towards. the best meiliod of eradicajting
the remains, of my mekncholy^ wlaich) every now
and, then would return, by fits^ and with a devouring.'
blackness- overcast the approacliiiag: siMsliime. At!
these moments I took refuge in the most pcrfecr
solitude. I passed whole days on the lake alone
in a little boat, watching the clouds, and listening
to the rippling of the waives., silent and listless.
But the fresh air and bright sun seldom failed to
restore me to. some degree, of con3|rosuTe ; amd, otv
my return,.! met the sailutationsof my friends with
a readien smile and a more, cheerful heart.

It was. after my return fromi one of these rambles^,,
that my fiuher, calling me: aside, thus addressed
me— "I am happy to remark,. i«y dear son^ that
you) have resumed your former pleasures, and seem/
to be returning to yourselL And yet- you are stiHf
unliappy, and still avoid' our society. For some
time L was lost ia conjecture as to the cause of this ;
but yesterday an idea; struck me, and if it is wdl'
founded, 1 conjure you to avow it. Reserve on*
such ai point would be not only useless-, ftut draw
do^Ti trcblfi: misery an ua aUj.'"

THE MODERN PROMFFHEUS. 2^11

1 trembled violeatly at his exordium, and my
father comiiiuied— '' I confess, my son, that I ha\'e
aiwarrs looked forward to your marriage with our
dear Elizatbeth as the tie of ouar domestic comfort,,
imd the stay of my declining years. You were
attached* to» each other from your earliest infancy ;
you studied together, and appeared,, in dispositions
and tastes, entirely swited to one another. But so
blind, is the experience of man, that what I con-
ceived to be the best assistanus to my plan^ may-
have entirely destroyed it. You, perhaps, regard,
her as youar sister,, without any wish that slie might
become youir wife:. Nay, you may have met with
another whom yo« may love; and, considering
youiself as bound in honour to EUzabeth, tins-
struggle may occasion the- poignant misery which
you appear to feel/'

" My dear father, re-assure yourself. I love my
cousin tcndterly and sincerely. I never saw any
woman who cxdted, as Elizabeth does, my warmest
adnricatiott and affection. My future hopes and
prospeas are entirely bound up in the expeaation
of ottf tinion."

" Tbe expression of yoiir sentiments on this sub-
ject, my dear Victor, ^ves me more pleasure than
I have- for some time experienced. If you feel
thus, we shali assuredly be happy, however present
events may cast a gloom over us. But it is tliis
gloom which appears to have taken so strong* a lK>ld
of >roiir ndnd, that I wish to dissipate. Tell me,

212 FRANKENSTEIN ; OR,

therefore, whether you object to an immediate
solemnisation of the marriage. We have been un-
fortunate, and recent events have drawn us from
that every-day tranquillity befitting my years and
infirmities. You are younger ; yet I do not suppose,
possessed as you are of a competent fortune, that
an early marriage would at all interfere with any
future plans of honour and utility that you may
have formed. Do not suppose, however, that I
wish to dictate happiness to you, or that a delay on
your part would cause me any serious uneasiness.
Interpret my words with candour, and answer me,
I conjure you, with confidence and sincerity."

I listened to my father in silence, and remained
for some time incapable of offering any reply.
I revolved rapidly in my mind a multitude of
thoughts, and endeavoured to arrive at some con-
•clusion. Alas 1 to me the idea of an immediate
union with my Elizabeth was one of horror and
dismay. I was bound by a solemn promise, which
I had not yet fulfilled, and dared not break ; or, if
I did, what manifold miseries might not impend
■over me and my devoted family ! Could I enter
into a festival with this deadly weight yet hanging
round my neck, and bowing me to the ground.
I must perform my engagement, and let the
monster depart with his mate, before I allowed
myself to enjoy the delight of an union from
•which I expected peace.

I remembered also the necessity imposed upon

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 21 3

nie of either journeying to England, or entering
into a long correspondence with those philosophers
of that country, whose knowledge and discoveries
were of indispensable use to me in my present
undertaking. The latter method of obtaining the
desired intelligence was dilatory and unsatisfactory:
besides, I had an insurmountable aversioti to the
idea of engaging myself in my loathsome task in
my father's house, while in habits of familiar inter-
course with those I loved. I knew that a thousand
fearful accidents might occur, the slightest of which
would disclose a tale to thrill all connected with
me with horror. I was aware also that I should
often lose all self-command, all capacity of hiding
the harrowing sensations that would possess me
during the progress of my unearthly occupation.
I must absent myself from all I loved while thus
employed. Once commenced, it w^ould quickly
be achieved, and I might be restored to my family
in peace and happiness. My promise fulfilled, the
monster would depart for ever. Or (so my fond
fancy imaged) some accident might meanwhile
occur to destroy him, and put an end to my
slavery for ever.

These feelings dictated my answer to my father.
I expressed a wish to visit England ; but, conceal-
ing the true reasons of this request, I clothed my
desires under a guise which excited no suspicion,
while I urged my desire with an earnestness that
easily induced my father to comply. After so long

214 FRANKENSTEIN; OR,

41 period of an absorbing melancholy, thai resembled
madness in its intensity^nd effects, he was g^ad to
find that I was capable of taking pleasure in the
itiea of such a journey, and be hoped that <:hange
of scene and varied amusemecft would, before my
return, have restored me entirely to myself.

The duration of my absence was left to my own
choice ; a few months, or at most a year, was tlic
period contemplated. One paternal kind precautrion
he had taken to ensure my having a companion.
Without previously communicating v,iih me, he
had, in concert with Elizabeth, ZTrang^A that
Qerval should join me at Strasburg. This inter-
fered with the solitude I coveted for the prosecaiion
of my task; ^^et at tl>e commencement ^ my
journey tlie presence of my friend could in noway
be an impediment, and truly I rejoiced that thus
I should be saved many hours of lonely, maddening
reflection. Nay, Henr}'^ might stand -betwewi me
And the intrusion of my foe. If I were i^one,
would he not at times force his abhorred presence
on me, to remind me of my task, or to comemplate
its progress ?

To England, therefore, I was bound, and h was
understood that my union with Elizabeth -should
take place immediately on my return. My father's
age Tendered him extremely averse to delay. For
nn-self, there was one reward I promised -myself
from my detested toils — one consolation for my
unparalleled sufferings ; it was the prospect of that

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 2 1 >

-day when, enfranchised from my miserable 'SlaTery,
•I migfht claim Elizabeth, and forget the pa* tin my
union with her.

I now ma^ arrangements for my journey ; but
one feeling hatmted me, which filled me wii!h fear
smd agitation. Dming my absence I shot^ld leave
my friends unconscious 'of the existence of their
enemy, and unprotected from his attaclis, exas-
perated as he might 'be by my departure. But he
iiad promised to follow me wherever I mighft go ;
and would he not accompany me to England?
This imagination was dreadful in itself, Txrt 'sooth-
ing, inasmuch as it -sirpposed the safety of my
friends. I was agonised with the idea df the
possibility that the reverse of this might happen.
But through the whole period during whrdi I was
tlte slave of my creature, I allowed myself to be
governed 'by the impulses of the nroment ; and my
present sensations strongly intimarted that the "fiend
would follow me, and exempt my faniily from the
danger of his machinations.

It was in the latter end of September that I
^again quitted my native country. My journey
had been my own suggestion, and Elizabeth, there-
fore, acquiesced : hut she was filled with disquiet
at the idea of tny suffering, away from her, the
inroads of misery and grief. It had heen her care
Which provided me a companion in Clervafl — and
yet a man is blind to a thousand ratrrate cir-
cumstances, which call forth a womah^s sedulous

2l6 FRANKENSTEIN; OR,

attention. She longed to bid me hasten my re-
turn, — a thousand conflicting emotions rendered
her mute, as she bade me a tearful silent farewell.

I threw myself into the carriage that was to con-
vey me away, hardly knowing whither I was going,
and careless of what was passing around. I re-
membered only, and it was with a bitter anguish
that I reflected on it, to order that my chemical
instruments should be packed to go with me.
Filled with dreary imaginations, I passed through
many beautiful and majestic scenes ; but my eyes
were fixed and unobserving. I could only think
of the bourne of my travels, and the work which
was to occupy me whilst they endured.

After some days spent in listless indolence,
during which I traversed many leagues, I arrived
at Strasburg, where I waited two days for ClervaL
He came. Alas, how great was the contrast be-
tween us 1 He was alive to every new scene ; joy-
ful when he saw the beauties of the setting sun,
and more happy when he beheld it rise, and re-
commence a new day. He pointed out to me the
shifting colours of the landscape, and the appear-
ances of the sky. ** This is what it is to live,"
he cried, " now I enjoy existence ! But you, my
dear Frankenstein, wherefore are you desponding
and sorrowful ! " In truth, I was occupied by
gloomy thoughts, and neither saw- the descent of
the evening star, nor the golden sunrise reflected
in the Rhine. — And you, my friend, would be far

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 217

more amused with the journal of Clerval, who
observed the scenery with an eye of feeling and
delight, than in listening to my reflections. I, a
miserable wretch, haunted by a curse that shut up
every avenue to enjoyment.

We had agreed to descend the Rhine in a boat
from Strasburg to Rotterdam, whence we might
take shipping for London. During this voyage,
we passed many willowy islands, and saw several
beautiful towns. We stayed a day at Manheim,
and, on the fifth from our departure from Stras-
burg, arrived at Mayence. The course of the
Rhine below Mayence becomes much more pictur-
esque. The river descends rapidly, and winds be-
tween hills, not high, but steep, and of beautiful
forms. We saw many ruined castles standing on
the edges of precipices, surrounded by black woods,
high and inaccessible. This part of the Rhine,
indeed, presents a singularly variegated landscape.
In one spot you view rugged hills, ruined castles
overlooking tremendous precipices, with the dark
Rhine rushing beneath ; and, on the sudden turn
of a promontory, flourishing vineyards, with green
sloping banks, and a meandering river, and
populous towns occupy the scene.

We travelled at the time of the vintage, and
heard the song of the labourers, as we glided
down the stream. Even I, depressed in mind,
and my spirits continually agitated by gloomy
feelings, even I was pleased. I lay at the bottom

2l8 FRANKENSTEIN; OR,

of the boat, and, as I gazed on the ctoudless Mae
sky, I seemed to dritii in a tranquillity to which I
had long been a stranger. And if these were- my
sensations, who can dfescribe those of Henr}' ? He
felt as if he had been transported to Fairyland', and
enjoyed a happiness seldom tasted by man, *'I
have seen,* he said^ ** the most beautiful scenes of
ray own coimtry; I have visited the lakes of
Lucerne and Uri, where the snowy mountains de-
scend almost perpendicularly to the water, casting
Wack and impenetrable shades, which would cause
a gloomy and mournful appearance, were it not
for the most verdant fsknds that relieve the eye
by their gay appearance; 1 have seen this lake
agitafted by a tempest, when the wind tore up
whirlwinds of Water, and gave you an idea crf^
what the waterspout must be on the great ocean ;
and the waves dash 'with fury the base of tfee
mountain, where the priest and his mistress were
overwliehned by an avalanche, and where their
dying voices are still said to be heard amid the
pauses of the nightly wind; I have seen the
mocrmams of La Valais, and the Pays de Vaud r
but this countt}', Victor, pleases me more than all
those wonders. The mountains of Switzerland
are more majestic and strange; but there is a
charm in the banks of this divine river, that I
never before saw equalled. Look at that castle
which overhangs yon precipice ; and that also on
liie isfand, almost concealed amongst the foliage

THE MODEKH PROMETHEUS. 21$

of those lovely trees ; and now that group* oC
labourers coming from among tkeir vines ; and
that village half hid in the recess of the mountain.
Oh, surely, the spirit that, inhabits and guards this
place, has a soul more m harmony with man» than
those who pile the glacier,, or retire to the inaccesi-
sible peaks of the mountains of our own country."
Clerval I beloved ^nd 1 even now it dielights
me to record 3'oui woids^ and to dwiell on the
praise of which you are so cnunently deserving^
He was a being frxrmed in the ** very poetry of
nature." His wild and enthusiastic imagination
was chastened by the sensibility of his heart. His
soul overflowed with ardent affections, and his
friendship was of thatdevoted and wondrous nature
that the worldly-minded teach us to look for only
in the imagination. But even human sympathies
were not sufficient tosatbfy his eager mind. The
scenery of exteiiaall nature, which others regard ody
with admiration^ he loved with ardour : —

" The sounding cataract
Haunted biin likea passioa : the tall rock,
The mouataia, and the deep and gloomy wood*
Their colours and thetr forms, were then to him
An appetite ; a feelias, and a love,
That Had no need of a remoter charm.
By thought supplied, or any interest
Unborrowed from the eye;" *

And where does he now exist ? Is this gentle
and lovely being lost for ever ? Has this mind> so

* Wordswocth's Tintem Abbey.

220 FRANKENSTEIN; OR,

replete with ideas, imaginations fanciful and magni-
ficent, which formed a world, whose existence de-
pended on the life of its creator *, — has this mind
perished ? Does it now only exist in my memory ?
No, it is not thus ; your form so divinely wrought,
and beaming with beauty, has decayed, but your
spirit still visits and consoles your unhappy friend.

Pardon this gush of sorrow ; these ineffectual
words are but a slight tribute to the unexampled
worth of Henry, but they soothe my heart, over-
flowing with the anguish which his remembrance
creates. I will proceed with my tale.

Beyond Cologne we descended to the plains of
Holland ; and we resolved to post the remainder
of our way ; for the wind was contrary, and the
stream of the river was too gentle to aid us.

Our journey here lost the interest arising from
beautiful scenery ; but we arrived in a few days at
Rotterdam, whence we proceeded by sea to England.
It was on a clear morning, in the latter days of
December, that I first saw the white cliffs of Britain.
The banks of the Thames presented a new scene ;
they were flat, but fertile, and almost every town
was marked by the remembrance of some story.
We saw Tilbury Fort, and remembered the Spanish
Armada ; Gravesend, Woolwich, and Greenwich,
places which I had heard of even in my country.

At length we saw the numerous steeples of
London, St Paul's towering above all, and the
Tower famed in English histor}'.

THE AlODERN PROMETHEUS. 221

CHAPTER XIX.

London was our present point of rest ; we deter-
mined to remain several months in this wonderful
and celebrated city. Clerval desired the intercourse
of the men of genius and talent who flourished
at this time ; but this was with me a secondary
object ; I was principally occupied with the means
of obtaining the information necessary for the com-
pletion of my promise, and quickly availed myself
of the letters of introduction that I had brought
with me, addressed to the most distinguished
natural philosophers.

If this journey had taken place during my days
of study and happiness, it would have afforded me
ipexpressible pleasure. But a blight had come over
my existence, and I only visited these people for
the sake of the information they might give me on
the subject in which my interest was so terribly
profound. Company was irksome to me ; when
alone, I could fill my mind with the sights of
heaven and earth ; the voice of Henry soothed me,
and I could thus cheat myself into a transitory
peace. But busy uninteresting joyous faces brought
back despair to my heart. I saw an insurmount-
able barrier placed between me and my fellow-men ;
this barrier was sealed with the blood of William
and Justine ; and to reflect on the events connected
with those names filled my soul with anguish.

But in Clerval I saw the image of my former

222 FRANKEKSTEIK ; OR,

self; he was inquisitive, aod anxious to gain expe-
rience and instruction. The difference of manners
which lie observed was to him an inexhaustible
sonroe of instruoion and amusement. He T^-as
aiso pursuing an object he had long had in view.
His design was to visit India, in the belief that he
^d ia. his knowledge of its various languages, and
in the views he had taken of its society, the mean$ of
materially assisting the progiess of European colo-
iiisaicion and trade. In Biitain only could he Richer
the csecntion of his plan. He was for ever busy ;
and the only check to his enjoyments was my
sorrowful and dejected mind. I tried to conceal
this as much as possible, that I might not debar
jhim from die pleasures natural to one wIk> was
•entering x>n a new scene of life, undisturbed by any
care or bitter recollection. I often refosed to
accompany him, alleging another engagement, that
I might remain aiooe, I now also began to coHect
the materials necessary for my new creation, and
tliis was to me like the torture of single drops of
water continually felling on the head. Every
thought that was devoted to it was an extreme
angui^, snd every word that I sp6ke in allusion
to it carased ray lips to qmvcr, and my heart to
■palpitate.

After passing some months in London, we rc-
cerved a letter from a person in Scotland, who had
formerly been our visitor at Geneva. He mentioned
the beauties of his native country, and asflted us if

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 223

those were not sufEci^t allurements to Muce us
to prolong our journey as far north as Perdi, where
he resided. Clerval eagerly desired to accept this
invita.tion ; .and l, although I abhocred society,
wished to view .again n^ountains and streams, and
all the wondrous works with which Nature .adoms
her chosen dwelling-places.

We had arrived in England at the beginmng of
October, and it was roow February. We .acawdii^y
determined to commenoe our journey towards the
north at the expiration of ono^er tnondi. ^ this
expedition we did not intend to idiow tks great
road to Edinburgh, but to visit Wacdsor, Oxford,
Matlock, and the Cumberland lakes, resohrang to
arrive at tl>e completion of this tour iabout tlic end
of July. I packed up my diemical itnstramaits, and
the .materials I had .collectedl, resolving t!0 finish
my labours in some ohscnve Aook tn ithe nor^em
highlands of Scotland.

We quitted London on the 27th of March, and
remained a few days at Windsor, rambliiag in its
beautiful forest. This was a new scene 10 us
mountaineers ; the majestic oaks, the qnamuaiy of
-game, and tlie herds of stalely deer, wserc ajl
•novelties to us.

Erom thence we proceeded to Oxford. As -we
entered this city, our minds were filled -wkh the
remembrance of the -events that had beentnmsaaed
there more than a century and a half before. It
was here that Charles I. had collected his forces.

224 FRANKENSTEIN ; OR,

This city had remained faithful to him, after the
whole nation had forsaken his cause to join the
standard of Parliament and liberty. The memory
of that unfortunate king, and his companions, the
amiable Falkland, the insolent Goring, his queen,
and son, gave a peculiar interest to every part of
the city, which they might be supposed to have
inhabited. The spirit of elder days found a dwell-
ing here, and we delighted to trace its footsteps.
If these feelings had not found an imaginary grati-
fication, the appearance of the city had yet in itself
sufficient beauty to obtain our admiration. The
colleges are ancient and picturesque ; the streets
are almost magnificent ; and the lovely Isi's, which
flows beside it through meadows of exquisite ver-
dure, is spread forth into a placid expanse of waters,
which reflects its majestic assemblage of towers, and
spires, and domes, embosomed among aged trees.
I enjoyed this scene ; and yet my enjoyment was
embittered both by the memory of the past, and
the anticipation of the future. I was formed for
peaceful happiness. During my youthful days
discontent never visited my mind ; and if I was
ever overcome by ennui y the sight of what is beauti-
ful in nature, or the study of what is excellent and
sublime in the productions of man, could always
interest my heart, and communicate elasticity to
my spirits. But I am a blasted tree ; the bolt has
entered my soul; and I felt then that I should
survive to exhibit, what I shall soon cease to be —

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 22$

a miserable spectacle of wrecked humanity, pitiable
to others, and intolerable to myself.

We passed a considerable period at Oxford,
rambling among its environs, and endeavouring to
identify every spot which might relate to the most
animating epoch of English history. Our little
voyages of discovery were often prolonged by the
successive objects that presented themselves. We
visited the tomb of the illustrious Hampden, and
the field on which that patriot fell. For a moment
my soul was elevated from its debasing and miser-
able fears, to contemplate the divine ideas of liberty
and self-sacrifice, of which these sights were the
monuments and the remembrancers. For an in-
stant I dared to shake off my chains, and look
around me with a free and lofty spirit ; but the iron
had eaten into my flesh, and I sank again, trembling
and hopeless, into my miserable self.

We left Oxford with regret, and proceeded to
Matlock, which was our next place of rest. The
country in the neighbourhood of this village re-
sembled, to a greater degree, the scenery of Switzer-
land ; but everything is on a lower scale, and the
green hills want the crown of distant white Alps,
which alwajrs attend on the piny mountains of my
native country. We visited the wondrous cave,
and the little cabinets of natural history, where the
curiosities are disposed in the same manner as in
the collections at Servox and Chamounix. The
latter name made me tremble, when pronounced by

(31) H

r226 FRANKENSTEIN; OR,

iHenry ; and I hastened to quit Matlock, with which
that terrible scene was thus associated.

From Derby, still journeying northward, we
passed two months in Cumberland and Westmore-
land. I could now almost fancy myself among the
Swiss mountains. The little patches of snow which
yet lingered on the northom sides of the tstountains,
the lakes, and the dashing of the rocky streams,
were all familiar and dear sights to me. Here also
we made some acquaintances, who almost contrived
to cheat me into happiness. The delight of Clerval
was propoftionably greater than mine ; his mind
expanded in the company of men of talent, and he
found in his own nature greater capacities and re-
sources than he could have imagined himself to
have possessed while he associated with his in-
feriors. **I could pass my life here," said he to
me ; *^ and among these mountains I should scarcely
regret Switzerland and the Rhine."

But he found that a traveller's life is one that
includes much pain amidst its enjoyments. His
feelings are for ever on the stretch ; and when he
begins to sink into repose, he finds himself obliged
to quit that on which he rests in pleasure for some-
thing new, which again engages his attention, and
whidi also he forsakes for other novdtiesw

We had scarcely visited the various lakes of
Cumberland and Westmoreland, and conceived an
affection for some of the inhabitants, when the
period of our appointment with our Scotch friend

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 227

approached, and we left them to travel on. For
my own part I was not sorry. I had now neglected
my promise for some time, and I feared the effects
of the daemon's disappointment. He might remain
in Switzerland, and wreak his vengeance on my
relatives. This idea pursued me, and tormented
me at every moment from which I might otherwise
have snatched repose and peace. I waited for my
letters with feverish impatience : if they were de-
layed, I was miserable, and overcome by a thousand
fears ; and when they arrived, and I saw the super-
scription of Elizabeth or my father, I hardly dared
to read and ascertain my fate. Sometimes I thought
that the fiend followed me, and might expedite my
remissness by murdering my companion. When
these thoughts possessed me, I would not quit
Henry for a moment, but followed him as his
shadow, to protect him from the fancied rage of his
destroyer. I felt as if I had committed some great
crime, the consciousness of which haunted me. I was
guiltless, but I had indeed drawn down a horrible
curse upon my head, as mortal as that of crime.

I visited Edinburgh with languid eyes and mind ;
and yet that city might have interested the most
unfortunate being. Clerval did not like it so well
as Oxford : for the antiquity of the latter city was
more pleasing to him. But the beauty and regu-
larity of the new town of Edinburgh, its romantic
castle, and its environs, the most delightful in the
world, Arthur's Seat, St. Bernard's Well, and the

228 FRANKENSTEIN; OR,

Pentland Hills, compensated him for the change,
and filled him with cheerfulness and admiration.
But I was impatient to arrive at the termination of
my journey.

We left Edinburgh in a week, passing through
Cupar, St. Andrews, and along the banks of the
Tay, to Perth, where our friend expected us. But
I was in no mood to laugh and talk with strangers,
or enter into their feelings or plans with the good
humour expected from a guest ; and accordingly I
told Clerval that I wished to make the tour of
Scotland alone. ** Do you," said I, ** enjoy your-
self, and let this be our rendezvous. I may be
absent a month or two ; but do not interfere with
my motions, I entreat you : leave me to peace and
solitude for a short time ; and when I return, I
hope it will be with a lighter heart, more congenial
to your own temper,"

Henry wished to dissuade me ; but, seeing me
bent on this plan, ceased to remonstrate. He en-
treated me to write often. ** I had rather be with
you," he said, **in your solitary rambles, than
with these Scotch people, whom I do not know :
hasten then, my dear friend, to return, that I may
again feel myself somewhat at home, which I
cannot do in your absence."

Having parted from my friend, I determined to
visit some remote spot of Scotland, and finish my
work in solitude. I did not doubt but that the
monster followed me, and would discover himself

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 229

to me when I should have finished, that he might
receive his companion.

With this resolution I traversed the northern
highlands, and fixed on one of the remotest of
the Orkneys as the scene of my labours. It was
a place fitted for such a work, being hardly more
than a rock, whose high sides were continually
beaten upon by the waves. The soil was barren,
scarcely affording pasture for a few miserable cows,
and oatmeal for its inhabitants, which consisted of
five persons, whose gaunt and scraggy limbs gave
tokens of their miserable fare. Vegetables and
bread, when they indulged in such luxuries, and
even fresh water, was to be procured from the
mainland, which was about five miles distant.

On the whole island there were but three
miserable huts, and one of these was vacant when
I arrived. This I hired. It contained but two
rooms, and these exhibited all the squalidness of
the most miserable penury. The thatch had fallen
in, the walls were unplastered, and the door was off
its hinges. I ordered it to be repaired, bought
some furniture, and took possession ; an incident
which would, doubtless, have occasioned some
surprise, had not all the senses of the cottagers
been benumbed by want and squalid poverty. As
it was, I lived ungazed at and unmolested, hardly
thanked for the pittance of food and clothes which
I gave ; so much does suffering blunt even the
coarsest sensations of men.

230 FRANKENSTEIN; OR,

In this retreat I devoted the morning to labour ;
but in the evening, when the weather permitted, I
walked on the stony beach of the sea, to listen to
the waves as they roared and dashed at my feet.
It was a monotonous yet ever-changing scene. I
thought of Switzerland ; it was far different from
this desolate and appalling landscape. Its hills are
covered with vines, and its cottages are scattered
tliickly in the plains. Its fair lakes reflect a blue
and gentle sky ; and, when troubled by the winds,
their tumult is but as the play of a lively infant,
when compared to the roarings of the giant ocean.

In this manner I distributed my occupations
when I first arrived ; but, as I proceeded in my
labour, it became every day more horrible and
irksome to me. Sometimes I could not prevail
on myself to enter my laboratory for several days ;
and at other times I toiled day and night in order
to complete my work. It was, indeed, a filthy
process in which I was engaged. During my first
experiment, a kind of enthusiastic frenzy iiad
blinded me to the horror of my employment ; my
mind was intently fixed on the consummation of
my labour, and my eyes were shut to the horror
of my proceedings. But now I went to it in cold
blood, and my heart often sickened at the work
of my hands.

Thus situated, employed in the most detestable
occupation, immersed in a solitude where nothing
could for an instant call my attention from the

THE MODERK PROMETHEUS. 23r

actual scene in which I was engaged, mj spirits-
became unequal; I grew restless and nervous.
Every nKKnent 1 feared to meet my persecutor.
Sometimes I sat with my eyes fixed on the ground,
fearing to raise them, lest they should etKounter
the object which I so much dreaded to behoW.
I feared to wander from the sight of my fellow-
creatures, lest when alone he should come to claim,
his companion.

In the meantime I worked on, and my labour
was already considerably advanced. I looked
towards its completion with a tremulous and eager
hope, which I dared not trust mjrself to question,
but which was intermixed with obscure forebodings -
of evil, that made my heart sicken in my bosom.

CHAPTER XX.

I SAT one evening in my laboratory ; the sun had
set, and the moon was just rising from the sea ; I
had not sufficient light for my employmei^t, and
I remained idle, in a pause of consideration of
whether I should leave my labour for the night,,
or hasten its conclusion by an unremitting attention
to it. As I sat, a train of reflection occurred to^
me, which led me to consider the effects of what
1 was now doing. Three years before I was
engaged in the same manner, and had created a
fiend whose unparalleled barbarity had desolated.

232 FRANKENSTEIN j OR,

my heart, and filled it for ever with the bitterest
remorse. I was now about to form another being,
of whose dispositions I was alike ignorant ; she
might become ten thousand times more malignant
than her mate, and delight, for its own sake, in
murder and wretchedness. He had sworn to quit
the neighbourhood of man, and hide himself in
deserts ; but she had not ; and she, who in all
probability was to become a thinking and reasoning
animal, might refuse to comply with a compact
made before her creation. They might even hato
each other ; the creature who already lived loathed
his own deformity, and might he not conceive a
greater abhorrence for it when it came before his
eyes in the female form ? She also might .turn
with disgust from him to the superior beauty of
man ; she might quit him, and he be again alone,
exasperated by the fresh provocation of being
deserted by one of his own species.

Even if they were to leave Europe, and inhabit
the deserts of the new world, yet one of the first
results of those sympathies for which the daemon
thirsted would be children, and a race of devils
would be propagated upon the earth, who might
make the very existence of the species of man a
condition precarious and full of terror. Had I right,
for my own benefit, to inflict this curse upon ever-
lasting generations ? I had before been moved by
the sophisms of the being I had created ; I had
been struck senseless by his fiendish threats ; but

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 233

now, for the first time, the wickedness of my
promise burst upon me ; I shuddered to think that
future ages might curse me as their pest, whose
selfishness had not hesitated to buy its own peace
at the price, perhaps, of the existence of the whole
human race.

I trembled, and my heart failed within me ; when>
on looking up, I saw, by the light of the moon, the
daemon at the casement A ghastly grin wrinkled
his lips as he gazed on me, where I sat fulfilling
the task which he had allotted to me. Yes, he had
followed me in my travels; he had loitered in
forests, hid himself in caves, or taken refuge in wide
and desert heaths ; and he now came to mark my
progress, and claim the fulfilment of my promise.

As I looked on him, his countenance expressed
the utmost extent of malice and treachery. I thought
witli a sensation of madness on my promise of
creating another like to him, and trembling with
passion, tore to pieces the thing on which I was
engaged. The wretch saw me destroy the creature
on whose future existence he depended for hap-
piness, and, with a howl of devilish despair and
revenge, withdrew.

I left the room, and, locking the door, made a
solemn vow in my own heart never to resume my
labours ; and then, with trembling steps, I sought
my own apartment. I was alone ; none were near
me to dissipate the gloom, and relieve me from the
sickening oppression of the most terrible reveries.

234 FRANKENSTEIN; OR,

Several hours passed, and I remained near my
window gazing on the sea ; it was almost motion-
less, for the winds were hushed, and all nature
reposed under the eye of the quiet moon. A few
fishing vessels alone specked the water, and now
and then the gentle breeze wafted the sound of
voices, as the fishermen called to one another, I
felt the silence, although I was hardly conscious of
its extreme profundity, until my ^ar was suddenly
arrested by the paddling of oars near the shore, and
a person landed close to my house.

In a few minutes after, I heard the creaking of
my door, as if some one endeavoured to open it
softly. I trembled from head to foot; I fieh a
presentiment of who it was, and wished to rouse
one of the peasants who dwelt in a cottage not far
from mine ; but I was overcome by the sensation
of helplessness, so often felt in frightful dreams,
when you in vain endeavour to fly from an im-
pending danger, and was rooted to the spot.

Presently I heard the sound of footsteps along
the passage ; the door opened, and the wretch
whom I dreaded appeared. Sliutting the door, he
approached me, and said, in a smothered voice—
** You have destroyed the woric which you began ;
what is it that you intend ? Do you dare to break
your promise ? I have endured toil and misery ;
I left Switzerland with you ; I crept along the
shores of the Rhine, among its willow islands, and
over the summits of its hills. I have dwelt many

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 235

months in the heaths of England, and among the
deserts of Scotland. I have endured incalculable
fatigue, and cold, and hunger ; do you dare destroy
my hopes ? "

** Begone I I do break my promise; never will
I create another like yourself, equal in deformity
and '^'ickedness."

"Slave, I before reasoned with you, but you
have proved yourself imworthy of my condescen-
sion. Remember that I have power ; you believe
you-rself miserable, but I can make you so wretched
that the light of day will be hateful to you. You
are my creator, but I am your master ;— obey ! "

" The hour of my irresolution is past, and the
period of your power is arrived. Your threats
cannot move me to do an act of wickedness ; but
they confirm me in a determination of not creating
you a companion in vice. Shall I, in cool blood,
set loose upon the earth a daemon, whose delight
is in death and wretchedness ? Begone I I am firm,
and your words will only exasperate my rage."

The monster saw my determination in my face,
and gnashed his teeth in the impotence of anger,
** Shall each man," cried he, " find a wife for his
bosom, and each beast have his mate, and I be
alone? I had feelings of affection, aftd they were
requited by detestation and scorn. Man I you may
hate ; but beware I your hours will pass in dread
and misery, and soon the bolt will fall which must
ravish from you your happiness for ever. Are you

236 FRANKENSTEIN; OR,

to be happy, while I grovel in the intensity of my
wretchedness ? You can blast my other passions ;
but revenge remains — revenge, henceforth dearer
than light or food ! I may die ; but first you, my
tyrant and tormentor, shall curse the sun that gazes
on your misery. Beware ; for I am fearless, and
therefore powerful. I will watch with the wiliness
of a snake, that I may sting with its venom. Man,
you shall repent of the injuries you inflict."

** Devil, cease ; and do not poison the air with
these sounds of malice. I have declared my reso-
lution to you, and I am no coward to bend beneath
words. Leave me ; I am inexorable."

" It is well. I go ; but remember, I shall be
with you on your wedding-night."

I started forward and exclaimed, "Villain I be-
fore you sign my death-warrant, be sure that you
are yourself safe."

I would have seized him ; but he eluded me,
and quitted the house with precipitation. In a
few moments I saw him in his boat, which shot
across the waters with an arrowy swiftness, and
was soon lost amidst the waves.

All was again silent ; but his words rung in my
ears. I burned with rage to pursue the murderer
of my peace,' and precipitate him into the ocean,
I walked up and down my room hastily and per-
turbed, while my imagination conjured up a thou-
sand images to torment and sting me. Why had
I not followed him, and closed with him in mortal

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 237

Strife? But I had suffered him to depart, and he
had directed his course towards the mainland. I
shuddered to think who might be the next victim
sacrificed to his insatiate revenge. And then I
thought again of his words — ** / will he with you
on your wedding-night" That then was the period
fixed for the fulfilment of my destiny. In that
hour I should die, and at once satisfy and extin-
guish his malice. The prospect did not move me
to fear ; yet when I thought of my beloved Eliza-
beth, — of her tears and endless sorrow, when she
should find her lover so barbarously snatched from
her, — tears, the first I had shed for many months,
streamed from my eyes, and I resolved not to fall
before my enemy without a bitter struggle.

The night passed away, and the sun rose from
the ocean ; my feelings became calmer, if it may
be called calmness, when the violence of rage sinks
into the depths of despair. I left the house, the
horrid scene of the last night's contention, and
walked on the beach of the sea, which I almost
regarded as an insuperable barrier between me and
my fellow-creatures ; nay, a wish that such should
prove the fact stole across me. I desired that I
might pass my life on that barren rock, w^earily, it
is true, but uninterrupted by any sudden shock of
misery. If I returned, it was to be sacrificed, or to
see those whom I most loved die under the grasp
of a daemon whom I had myself created.

I walked about the isle like a restless spectre,

2j8 FRANKENSTEIN; OR,

separated from all it loved, and miserable in the
separation. When it became noon, and the son
rose higher, I lay down on the grass, and was
overpowered by a deep steep. I had been awake
tiie whole of the preceding night, my nerves were
agitated, and my eyes inflamed by watching
and misery. The steep into which I now sunk
refreshed me ; and when I awoke^ I again felt as
if I belonged to a race of human beings like my-
self, and 1 began to reflect upon what had passed
with greater composure; yet still the words of
the fiend rung in my ears like a death-knell, they
appeared like a dream, yet distinct and oppressive
as a reality.

The sun had far descended, and I still sat on
the shore, satisfying my appetite, which had be-
come ravenous, with an oaten cake, when I saw a
fishing-boat land close to me, and one of the men
brought me a packet; it contained letters from
Geneva, and one from Clerval, entreating me to
join him. He said that he was wearing away his
time fruitlessly where he was; that letters from
the friends he had formed in London desired his
return to complete the negotiation they had entered
into for his Indian enterprise. He could not any
longer delay his departure ; but as his journey to
London might be followed, even sooner than he
now conjectured, by his longer voyage, he entreated
me to bestow as much of my society on him as I
could spare. He besought me, therefore, to leave

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 239

my solitary isle, and to meet him at Perth, that
we mig^t proceed southwards together. This
letter in a degree recalled me to life, and I deter-
mined to quit my island at the expiration of two
days.

Yet, before I departed, there was a task to per-
form, on which I shuddered to reflect: I must
pack up my chemical instruments ; and for that
purpose I must enter the room which had been the
scene of my odious work, and I must handle those
utensils, the sight of which was sickening to me.
The next morning, at daybreak, I summoned suf-
ficient courage, and unlocked the door of my
laboratory. The remains of tlie half-finished
creature, whom I had destroyed, lay scattered on
the floor, and I almost felt as if I had mangled the
living flesh of a human being. I paused to collect
myself, and then entered the chamber. With
trembling hand I conveyed the instruments out of
tlie room; but I reflected that I ought not to
leave the relics of my work to excite the horror
and suspicion of the peasants ; and I accordingly
put them into a basket, with a great quantity of
stones, and laying them up, determined to throw
them into the sea that very night ; and in the mean-
time I sat upon the beach, employed in cleaning
and arranging my chemical apparatus.

Nothing could be more complete than the altera-
tion that had taken place in my feelings since the
night of the appearance of the daemon. I had

240 FRANKENSTEIN ; OR,

before regarded my promise with a gloomy despair,
as a thing that, with whatever consequences, must
be fulfilled ; but I now felt as if a film had been
taken from before my eyes, and that I, for the
first time, saw clearly. The idea of renewing my
labours did not for one instant occur to me ; the
threat I had heard weighed on my thoughts, but I
did not reflect that a voluntary act of mine could
avert it. I had resolved in my own mind, that to
create another like the fiend I had first made would
be an act of the basest and most atrocious selfish-
ness ; and I banished from my mind every thought
that could lead to a different conclusion.

Between two and three in the morning the
moon rose ; and I then, putting my basket aboard
a little skiff, sailed out about four miles from the
shore. The scene was perfectly solitary : a few
boats were returning towards land, but I sailed
away from them. I felt as if I was about the
commission of a dreadful crime, and avoided with
shuddering anxiety any. encounter with my fellow-
creatures. At one time the moon, which had
before been clear, was suddenly overspread by a
thick cloud, and I took advantage of the moment
of darkness, and cast my basket into the sea : I
listened to the gurgling sound as it sunk, and then
sailed away from the spot. The sky became
clouded; but the air was pure, although chilled
by the north-east breeze that was then rising.
But it refreshed me, and filled me with such

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 24 1

agreeable sensations, that I resolved to prolong my
stay on the water ; and, fixing the rudder in a direct
position, stretched myself at the bottom of the boat
Clouds hid the moon, everything was obscure, and
I heard only the sound of the boat, as its keel cut
through the waves ; the murmur lulled me, and
in a short time I slept soundly.

I do not know how long I remained in this situa-
tion^ but when I awoke I found that the sun had
already mounted considerably. The wind was
high, and the waves continually threatened the
safety of my little skiff. I found that the wind
was north-east, and must have driven me far from
the coast from which I had embarked. I en-
deavoured to change my course, but quickly found
that, if I again made the attempt, the boat would
be instantly filled with water. Thus situated, my
only resource was to drive before the wind. I
confess that I felt a few sensations of terror. I
had no compass with me, and was so slenderly
acquainted with the geography of this part of the
world, that the sun was of little benefit to me. I
might be driven into the wide Atlantic, and feel all
the tortures of starvation, or be swallowed up in
the immeasurable waters that roared and buffeted
around me. I had already been out many hours,
and felt the torment of a burning thirst, a prelude
to my other sufferings. I looked on the heavens,
which were covered by clouds that flew before the
wind, only to be replaced by others : I looked upon

242 FRANKENSTEIN; OR,

the sea, it was to be my grave. ** Fiend," I ex-
claimed, ** yonr task is already fiilfiikd I " 1
thought of Elizabeth, of my father, and of Clerval ;
all left behind, on whom the monster might satisfy
his sanguinary and merciless passions. This idea
plunged me into a reverie, so despairing and
frightful, that even now, when the scene is on
the point of closing before me for ever, I shudder
to reflect on it.

Some hours passed thus ; but by degrees, as the
sun declined towards the horizon, the wind died
away into a gentle breeze, and the sea became free
from breakers. But these gave place to a heavy
swell : I felt sick, and hardly able to hold the rudder,
when suddenly I saw a line of high land towards
the south.

Almost spent, as I was, by fatigue, and the dread-
ful suspense I endured for several hours, this sudden
certainty of life rushed like a flood of warm joy to
my heart, and tears gushed from my eyes.

How mutable are our feelings, and how strange
is that clinging love we have of life even in the
excess of misery 1 I constructed another sail with
a part of my dress, and eagerly steered my course
towards the land. It had a wild and rocky appear-
ance ; but, as I approached nearer^ I easily perceived
the traces of cultivation. I saw vessels near the
shore, and found myself suddenly transported back
to the neighbourhood of civilised man, I carefully
traced the windings of the land, and hailed a steeple

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 245

which I at length saw issuing from behind a small
promontory. As I was in a state of extreme de-
bility, I resolved to sail directly towards the town,,
as a place where I could most easily procure nourish-
ment. Fortunately I had money with me. As-
I turned the promontory, I perceived a small
neat town and a good harbour, which I entered,,
my heart bounding with joy at my unexpected
escape.

As I was occupied in fixing the boat and arrang-
ing the sails, several people crowded towards the
spot They seemed much surprised at my appear-
ance ; but, instead of offering me any assistance,
whispered together with gestures that at any other
time might have produced in me a slight sensa-
tion of alarm. As it was, I merely remarked that
they spoke English ; and I therefore addressed
them in that language : " My good friends," said
I, " will you be so kind as to tell me the name of
this town, and inform me where I am ? "

*' You will know that soon enough,*' replied a
man with a hoarse voice. " May be you are come
to a place that will not prove much to your taste ;
but you will not be consulted as to your quarters,
I promise you."

I was exceedingly surprised on receiving so rude
an answer from a stranger; and I was also dis-
concerted on perceiving the frowning and angry
countenances of his companions. " Why do you
answer me so roughly ? " I replied ; " surely it is

244 FRANKENSTEIN; OR,

not the custom of Englishmen to receive strangers
so inhospitably."

"I do not know," said the man, "what the
custom of the Enghsh may be ; but it is the custom
of the Irish to hate villains."

While this strange dialogue continued, I per-
ceived the crowd rapidly increase. Their faces
expressed a mixture of curiosity and anger, which
annoyed, and in some degree alarmed me. I in-
quired the way to the inn ; but no one replied. I
then moved forward, and a murmuring sound arose
from the crowd as they followed and surrounded
me ; when an ill-looking man approaching, tapped
me on the shoulder and said, *' Come, sir, you
must follow me to Mr. Kirwin's, to give an account
of yourself."

"Who is Mr. Kin^nn? Why am I to give an
account of myself? Is not this a free country? "

"Ay, sir, free enough for honest folks. Mr.
Kirwin is a magistrate ; and you are to give an
account of the death of a gentleman who was
found murdered here last night."

This answer startled me ; but I presently re-
covered myself. I was innocent ; that could easily
be proved : accordingly I followed my conductor
in silence, and was led to one of the best houses in
the town. I was ready to sink from fatigue and
hunger ; but, being surrounded by a crowd, I
thought it politic to rouse all my strength, that
no physical debility might be construed into appre-

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 24$

hension or conscious guilt. Little did I then expect
the calamity that was in a few moments to over-
whelm me, and extinguish in horror and despair all
fear of ignominy or death.

I must pause here ; for it requires all my fortitude
to recall the memory of the frightful events which
I am about to relate, in proper detail, to my re-
collection.

CHAPTER XXI.

I WAS soon introduced into the presence of the
magistrate, an old benevolent man, with calm and
mild manners. He looked upon me, however, with
some degree of severity : and then, turning towards
my conductors, he asked who appeared as witnesses
on this occasion.

About half-a-dozen men came forward ; and, one
being selected by the magistrate, he deposed, that
he had been out fishing the night before with his
son and brother-in-law, Daniel Nugent, when, about
ten o'clock, they observed a strong northerly blast
rising, and they accordingly put in for port. It was
a very dark night, as the moon had not yet risen ;
they did not land at the harbour, but, as they had
been accustomed, at a creek about two miles below.
He walked on first, carr}'ing a part of the fishing
tackle, and his companions followed him at some
distance. As he was proceeding along the sands,

246 FRANKENSTEIN; OR,

he Struck his foot against something, and fell at his
length on the ground. His companions came up
to assist him ; and, by the light of their lantern,
they found that he had fallen on the body of a man,
who was to all appearance dead. Their first sup-
position was, that it was the corpse of some person
who had been drowned, and was thrown on shore
by the waves; but, on examination, they found
that the clothes were not wet, and even that the
body was not then cold. They instantly carried
it to the cottage of an old woman near the spot, and
endeavoured, but in vain, to restore it to life. It
appeared to ben handsome young man, about five-
and-twenty years of age. He had apparently been
strangled ; for there was no sign of any vidence,
except the black mark of fingers on his neck.

The first part of tliis deposition did not in the
least interest me ; but when the mark of the fingers
was mentioned, I remembered the murder of my
brother, and fdt myself extremely agitated ; my
limbs trembled, and a mist came over my eyes,
which obliged me to lean on a chair for support.
The magistrate observed me with a keen eye, and
of course drew an unfavourable augury from my
manner.

The son confirmed his father's account : but when
Daniel Nugent was called, he swore positively that,
just before the fall of his companion, he saw a boat,
with a single man in it, at a short distance from the
shore ; and, as far as he could judge by the light

THE MODERN PROlilETHEUS. 247

of a few Stars, it was the same boat in which I had
just landed.

A woman deposed, that she lived near the beach,
and was standing at the door of her cottage, waiting
for the return of the fishermen, about an hour before
she heard of the discovery of the body, when she
saw a boat, with only one man in it, pu^ off from
that part of the shore where the corpse was after-
wards found.

Another woman confirmed the account of the
fishermen having brought the body into her house ;
it was not cold. They put it into a bed^ and rubbed
it ; and Daniel went to the town for an apothecary,
but life was quite gone.

Several other men were examined concerning
my landing ; and they agreed, that, with the strong
north wind that had arisen during the night, it was
very probable that I had beaten about for many
hours, and had been obliged to return nearly to the
same spot from which I had departed. Besides,
they observed that it appeared that I had brought
the body from another place, and it was likely, that
as I did not appear to know the shore, I might have
put into the harbour ignorant of the distance of the

town of firom the place where I had deposited

the corpse.

Mr. Kirwin, on hearing this evidence, desired
that I should be taken into the room where the
body lay for interment, that it might be observed
what effect the sight of it would produce upon me.

248 FRANKENSTEIN; OR,

This idea was probably suggested by the extreme
agitation I had exhibited when the mode of the
murder had been described. I was accordingly
conducted, by the magistrate and several other
persons, to the inn. I could not help being struck
by the strange coincidences that had taken place
during this eventful night ; but, knowing that I had
been conversing with several persons in the island
I had inhabited about the time that the body had
been found, I was perfectly tranquil as to the
consequences of the affair,

I entered the room where the corpse lay, and
was led up to the coffin. How can I describe my
sensations on beholding it? I feel yet parched
with horror, nor can I reflect on that terrible
moment without shuddering and agony. The
examination, the presence of the magistrate and
witnesses, passed like a dream from my memory,
when I saw the lifeless form of Henry Clerval
stretched before me.- I gasped for breath ; and,
throwing myself on the body, I exclaimed, *' Have
my murderous machinations deprived you also,
my dearest Henry, of life ? Two I have already
destroyed ; other victims await their destiny : but
you, Clerval, my friend, my benefactor "

The human frame could no longer support the
agonies that I endured, and I was carried out of
the room in strong convulsions.

A fever succeeded to this. I lay for two months
on the point of death : my ravings, as I afterwards

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 249

heard, were frightful ; I called myself the murderer
of William, of Justine, and of Clerval. Sometimes
I entreated my attendants to assist me in the
destruction of the fiend by whom I was tormented ;
and at others, I felt the fingers of the monster
already grasping my neck, and screamed aloud with
agony and terror. Fortunately, as I spoke my
native language, Mr. Kirwin alone understood me;
but my gestures and bitter cries were sufficient to
affright the other witoesses.

Why did I not die ? More miserable than man
ever was before, why did I not sink into forget-
fulness and rest? Death snatches away many
blooming children, the only hopes of their doating
parents: how many brides and youthful lovers
have been one day in the bloom of health and
hope, and the next a prey for worms and the
decay of the tomb J Of what materials was I
made^ that I could thus resist so many shocks,
which, like the turning of the wheel, continually
renewed the torture ?

But I was doomed to live ; and, in two months,
found myself as awaking fi*om a dream, in a prison,
stretched on a wretched bed, surrounded by gaolers,
turnkeys, bolts, and all the miserable apparatus of
a dungeon. It was morning, I remember, when
I thus awoke to understanding : I had forgotten
the particulars of what had happened, and only
felt as if some great misfortune had suddenly over-
whelmed me; but when I looked around, and

250 FRANKENSTEIN; OR,

saw the barred windows, and the squalidness of
the room in whicli I was, ail flashed across my
memory, and I groaned bitterly.

This sonnd disturbed an old vraman who was
sleeping in a chair beside me. She was a hired
nurse» the wife of one of the turnkeys, and her
coumenance expressed all those bad qualities which
often characterise that class. The lines of her face
were hard and rude, hke that of persons accustomed
to see without sympathising in sights of misery.
Her tone expressed her entire indifference; she
addressed me in English, and the voice struck me
as one that I had heard during my su£[eriags —
** Are you better now, sir ? " said she,

I replied in the same language, with a feeble
voice, "I bdieve I am; but if it be all true, if
indeed I did not dream^ I am sorry that I am still
alive to feel this misery and horror."

** For that matter," replied the old woman, ** if
you mean about the gentleman you murdered, I
believe that it were better for you if you were
dead, for I fancy it will go hard with you I Ho.w-
ever, that's none of my business; I am sent to
nurse you, and get you well ; I do my duty with
a safe conscience ; it were well if everj'body did
the same."

I turned with loathing from the woman who
could utter so unfeeling a speech to a person just
saved, on the very cdg^ of death; but I felt
languid, and unable to reflea on all that had

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 2$ I

passed. The whole series of my life appeared to
me as a dream ; I sometime^ doubted if indeed it
were all true, for it never presented itself to my
mind with the force of reality.

As the images that floated before me became
more distina, I grew feverish ; a darkness pressed
around me : no one was near me who soothed
me with the gentle voice of love ; no dear hand
supported me. The physician came and prescribed
medicines, and the old woman prepared them for
me ; but utter carelessness was visible in the first,
and the expression of brutality was strongly marked
in the visage of the second. Who could be inte-
rested in the fate of a murderer, but the hangman
who would gain his fee ?

These were my first reflections; but I soon
learned that Mr. Kirwin had shown me extreme
kindness. He had caused the best room in the
prison to be prepared for me (wretched indeed was
the best); and it was he who had provided a
physician and a nurse. It is true, he seldom came
to see me ; for, although he ardently desired to
relieve the sufierings of every human creature,
he did not wish to be present at the agonies and
miserable ravings of a murderer. He came, there-
fore, sometimes, to see that I was not neglected ;
but his visits were short and with long intervals.

One day, while I was gradually recovering, I
was seated in a chair, my eyes half open, and my
cheeks livid like those in death. I was overcome

252 FRANKENSTEIN; OR,

by gloom and misery, and often reflected I had
better seek death than desire to remain in a world
which to me was replete with wretchedness. At
one time I considered whether I should not declare
myself guilty, and suffer the penalty of the law,
less innocent than poor Justine had been. Such
were my thoughts, when the door of my apartment
was opened, and Mr. Kirwin entered. His coun-
tenance expressed sympathy and compassion ; he
drew a chair close to mine, and addressed me in
French — " I fear that this place is very shocking
to you; can I do anything to make you more
comfortable?"

'* I thank you ; but all that you mention is
nothing to me: on the whole earth there is no
comfort which I am capable of receiving."

** I know that the sympathy of a stranger can
be but of little relief to one borne down as you are
by so strange a misfortune. But you will, I hope,
soon quit this melancholy abode ; for, doubtless,
evidence can easily be brought to free you from
the criminal charge."

** That is my least concern : I am, by a course
of strange events, become the most miserable of
mortals. Persecuted and tortured as I am and
have been, can death be any evil to me ? "

"Nothing indeed could be more unfortunate
and agonising than the strange chances that have
lately occurred. You were thrown, by some sur-
prising accident, on this shore, renowned for its

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 2$ 5

hospitality ; seized immediately, and charged with
murder. The first sight that was presented to
your eyes was the body of your friend, murdered
in so unaccountable a manner, and placed, as it
were, by some fiend across your path."

As Mr. Kirwin said this, notwithstanding the
agitation I endured on this retrospect of my suffer-
ings, I also felt considerable surprise at the know-
ledge he seemed to possess concerning me. I
suppose some astonishment- was exhibited in my
countenance; for Mr. Kirwin hastened to say —
" Immediately upon your being taken ill, all the
papers that were on your person were brought
me, and I examined them that I might discover
some trace by which I could send to your relations
an account of your misfortune and illness. I found
several letters, and, among others, one which I
discovered from its commencement to be from
your father. I instantly wrote to Geneva : nearly
two months have elapsed since the departure of
my letter. — But you are ilt; even now you
tremble : you are unfit for agitation of any kind.»»

** This suspense is a thousand times worse than
the most horrible event : tell me what new scene
of death has been acted, and whose murder I am
now to lament ? "

**Your family is perfectly well," said Mr.
Kirwin, with gentleness; **and some one, a
friend, is come to visit you."

I know not by what chain of thought the idea

254 FRANKENSTEIN ; OR,

presented itself, but it instantly darted into my
mind that the murderer had come to mock at my
misery, and taunt me with the death of Clerval, as
a new incitement for me to comply with his hellish
desires. I put my hand before my eyes, and cried
out in agony — ^** Oh I take him away \ I cannot
see him ; for God's sake do not let him enter I '*

Mr. Kirwin regarded me with a troubled coun-
tenance. He could not help regarding my exclama-
tion as a presumption of my guilt, and said, in
rather a severe tone — "I should have thought,
young man, that the presence of your father would
have been welcome, instead Of inspiring such
violent repugnance,"

"My father! " cried I, while every feature and
every muscle was relaxed from anguish to pleasure:
**is my fjather indeed come? How kind, how
very kind ! But where is he, why does he not
hasten to me ? "

My change of marmer surprised and pleased the
magistrate; perhaps he thought that my former
exclamation was a momentary return of delirium,
and now he instamly resumed his former benevo-
lence. He rose, and quitted the room with my
nurse, and in a moment my father entered it.

Nothing, at this moment, could have given me
greater pleasure than the arrival of my father. I
stretched out my hand to him, and cried — " Are
you then safe — and Elizabeth — and Ernest?"

My father calmed me with assurances of their

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. ^5$

i^'clfare, and endeavoured, by dwelling on these
subjects so interesting to my heart, to raise my
desponding spirits ; but he soon felt that a prison
cannot be the abode of cheerfulness.* "What a
place is this that you inhabit, my son I " said he,
looking mournfully at the barred windows, and
wretched appearance of the rooni . ** You travelled
to seek happiness, but a fatality seems to pursue
you. And poor Clerval " — ^

The name of my unlbrtunate and murdered friend
was an agitation too great to be endured in my weak
state ; I shed tears.

"Alas! yes, my father,'* replied I; **some
destiny of the most horrible kind hangs over me,
and I must live to fulfil it, or surely I should have
died on the coffin of Henry."

We were not allowed to converse for any length
of time, for the precarious state of my health ren-
dered every precaution necessary that could ensure
tranquillity. Mr. Kirwin came in, and insisted
that my strength should not be exhausted by too
much exertion. But the appearance of my father
was to me like that of my good angel, and I
gradually recovered my health.

As my sickness quitted me, I was absorbed by a
gloomy and black melancholy, that nothing could
dissipate. The image of Clerval was for ever be-
fore me, ghastly and murdered. More than once
the agitation into which these rcfleaions threw
me made my friends dread a dangerous relapse.

256 FRANKENSTEIN; OR,

Alas ! why did they preserve so miserable and de-
tested a life ? It was surely that I might fulfil my
destiny, which is now drawing to a close. Soon,
oh ! very soon, will death extinguish these th rob-
bings, and relieve me from the mighty weight of
anguish that bears me to the dust ; and, in execut-
ing the award of justice, I shall also sink to rest.
Then the appearance of death was distant, although
the wish was ever present to my thoughts ; and
I often sat for hours motionless and speechless,
wishing for some mighty revolution that might
bury me and my destroyer in its ruins.

The season of the assizes approached. I had
already been three months in prison ; and although
I was still weak, and in continual danger of a re-
lapse, I was obliged to travel nearly a hundred
miles to the county town, where the court was
held. Mr. Kirwin charged himself with every
care of collecting witnesses, and arranging my de-
fence. I was spared the disgrace of appearing
publicly as a criminal, as the case was not brought
before the court that decides on life and death.
The grand jury rejected the bill, on its being
proved that I was on the Orkney Islands at the
hour the body of my friend was found ; and a
fortnight after my removal I was liberated from
prison.

My father was enraptured on finding me freed
from the vexations of a criminal charge, that I was
again allowed to breathe the fresh atmosphere, and

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 2 $7

permitted to return to my native country. I did
not participate in these feelings; for to me the
waUs of a dungeon or a palace were alike hateful.
The cup of life was poisoned for ever ; and al-
though the sun shone upon me, as upon the happy
and gay of heart, I saw around me nothing but a
dense and frightful darkness, penetrated by no light
but the glimmer of two eyes that glared upon me.
Sometimes they were the expressive eyes of Henry,
languishing in death, the dark orbs nearly covered
by the lids, and the long black lashes that fringed
them ; sometimes it was the watery, clouded eyes
of the monster, as I first saw them in my chamber
at Ingolstadt.

My father tried to awaken in me the feelings of
affection. He talked of Geneva, which I should
soonvisit— of Elizabeth and Ernest; but these words
only drew deep groans from me. Sometimes, in-
deed, I felt a wish for happiness ; and thought,
with melancholy delight, of my beloved cousin ; or
longed, with a devouring mdladie du pays^ to see
once more the blue lake and rapid Rhone, that
had been so dear to me in early childhood : but
my general state of feeling was a torpor, in which
a prison was as welcome a residence as the divinest
scene in nature ; and these fits were seldom inter-
rupted but by paroxysms of anguish and despair.
At these moments I often endeavoured to put an
end to the existence I loathed ; and it required
unceasing attendance and vigilance to restrain

(31) I

258 FRANKENSTEIN; OR,

me from committing some dreadful act of vio-
lence.

Yet one duty remained to me, the recollection
of which finally triumphed over my selfish despair.
It was necessary that I should return without delay
to Geneva, there to watch over the lives of those I
so fondly loved ; and to lie in wait for the murderer,
that if any chance led me to the place of his con-
cealment, or if he dared again to blast me by his
presence, I might, with unfailing aim, put an end
to the existence of the monstrous Image which I
had endued with the mockery of a soul still more
monstrous. My father still desired to delay our
departure, fearful that I could not sustain the
fatigues of a journey : for I waS a shattered wreck,
— the shadow of a human being. My strength
was gone. I was a mere skeleton ; and fever night
and day preyed upon my wasted frame.

Still, as I urged our leaving Ireland with such
inquietude and impatience, my father thought it
best to yield. We took our passage on board a
vessel bound for Havre-de-Grace, and sailed witli a
fair wind from the Irish shores. It was midnight.
I lay on the deck, looking at the stars, and listening
to the dashing of the waves. I hailed the darkness
that shut Ireland from my sight ; and my pulse
beat with a feverish joy when I reflected that I
should soon see Geneva. The past appeared to
me in the light of a frightful dream ; yet tlie vessel
in which I was, the wind that blew me from the

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 2 $9

detested shore of Ireland, and the sea which sur-
rounded me, told me too forcibly that I was deceived
by no vision, and that Clerval, ray friend and dearest
companion, had fallen a victim to me and the
monster of my creation. I repassed, in my memory,
my whole life ; my quiet happiness while residing
with ray family in Geneva, the death of my mother,
and my departure for Ingolstadt. I remembered,
shuddering, the mad enthusiasm that hurried me
on to the creation of my hideous enemy, and I
called to mind the night in which he first lived. I
was unable to pursue the train of thought ; a thou-
sand feelings pressed upon me, and I wept bitterly.
Ever since my recovery from the fever, I had
been in the custom of taking every night a small
quantity of laudanum; for it was by means of
this drug only that I was enabled to gain the rest
necessary for the preservation of life. Oppressed
by the recollection of my various misfortunes, I
now swallowed double my usual quantity, and
soon slept profoundly. But sleep did not afford
me respite from thought and misery ; my dreams
presented a thousand objects that scared me. To-
wards morning I was possessed by a kind of night-
mare; I felt the fiend's grasp in my neck, and
could not free myself from it; groans and cries
rung in my ears. My father, who was watching
over me, perceiving my restlessness, awoke me ;
the dashing waves were around : the cloudy sky
above ; the fiend was not here : a sense of security,

26o FRANKENSTEIN ; OR,

a feeling that a truce was established between the
present hour and the irresistible, disastrous future,
imparted to me a kind of calm forgetfuhiess, of
which the human mind is by its structure peculiarly
susceptible.

CHAPTER XXII.

The voyage came to an end. We landed, and pro-
ceeded to Paris. I soon found that I had overtaxed
my strength, and that I must repose before I could
continue my journey. My father's care and atten-
tions were indefatigable; but he did not know
the origin of my sufferings, and sought erroneous
methods to remedy the incurable ill. He wished
me to seek amusement in society. I abhorred the
face of man. Oh, not abhorred I they were my
brethren, my fellow beings, and I felt attracted even
to the most repulsive among them, as to creatures
of an angelic nature and celestial mechanism. But
I felt that I had no right to share their intercourse.
I had unchained an enemy among them, whose joy
it was to shed their blood, and to revel in their
groans. How they would, each and all, abhor me,
and hunt me from the world, did they know my
unhallowed acts, and the crimes which had their
source in me I

My father yielded at length to my desire to avoid
society, and strove by various arguments to banish

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 26 1

my despair. Sometimes he thought that I felt
deeply the degradation of being obliged to answer
a charge of murder, and he endeavoured to prove
to me the futility of pride.

** Alas I my father," said I, " how little do you
know me. Human beings, their feelings and
passions, would indeed be degraded if such a
wretch as I felt pride. Justine, poor unhappy Jus-
tine, was as innocent as I, and she suffered the same
charge ; she died for it ; and I am the cause of this
— I murdered her. William, Justine, and Henry —
they all died by my hands."

My father had often, during my imprisonment,
heard me make the same assertion ; when I thus
accused myself, he sometimes seemed to desire an
explanation, and at others he appeared to consider
it as the offspring of delirium, and that, during my
illness, some idea of this kind had presented itself
to my imagination, the remembrance of which I
preserved in my convalescence. I avoided explana-
tion, and maintained a continual silence concerning
the wretch I had created. I had a persuasion that
I should be supposed mad ; and this in itself would
for ever have chained my tongue. But, besides,
I could not bring myself to disclose a secret which
would fill my hearer with consternation, and make
fear and unnatural horror the inmates of his breast.
I checked, therefore, my impatient thirst for sym-
pathy, and was silent when I would have given
the world to have confided the fatal secret. Yet

262 FRANKENSTEIN; OR,

Still words like those I have recorded, would burst
uncontrollably from me. I could oflFer no explana-
tion of them ; but their truth in part relieved tlie
burden of my mysterious woe.

Upon this occasion my father said, with an
expression of unbounded wonder, "My dearest
Victor^ what infatuation is this? My dear son,
I entreat you never to make such an assertion
again/'

" I am not mad," I cried energetically ; '* the
sun and the heavens, who have viewed my opera-
tions, can bear witness of my truth. I am the
assassin of those most innocent victims ; they died
by my machinations. A thousand times would I
have shed my own blood, drop by drop, to have
saved their lives ; but I could not, ray father, indeed
I could not sacrifice the whole human race,"

The conclusion of this speech convinced my
father that my ideas were deranged, and he in-
stantly changed the subject of our conversation, and
endeavoured to alter the course of my thoughts.
He wished as much as possible to obliterate the
memory of the scenes that had taken placein Ireland,
and never alluded to them, or suffered me to speak
of my misfortunes.

As time passed away I became more calm : misery
had her dwelling in my heart, but I no longer talked
in the same incoherent manner of my own crimes ;
sufficient for me was tlie consciousness of them.
By the utmost self-violence, 1 curbed the imperious

THE MODERN P&OMETUEUS. 26^

voice of wretchedness, which sometimes desired ta
declare itself to the whole world ; and my manners,
were calmer and more composed than they had
ever been since my journey to the sea of ice.

A few days before we left Paris on our way ta
Swiuerland, I received the following letter from
Elizabeth ; —

** My dear Friend,— It gave me the greatest pleasure
to receive a letter from my uncle dated at Paris ; youare
no longer at a formidable distance, and 1 may hope to see
you in less than a fortnight. My poor cousin, how much
you must have suffered t I expect to see you looking
even more ill than when 3'ou quitted Geneva. This
winter has been passed most miserably, tortured as I have
been by anxious suspense; yet I hope to see peace in
your countenance, and to find that your heart is not
totally void of comfort and tranquillity.

"Yet I fear that the same feelings now exist that made
you so miserable a year ago, even perhaps augmented by
time. I would not disturb you at this period, when so
many misfortunes weigh upon you ; but a conversation
that I had with my uncle previous to his departure renders
some explanation necessary before we meet.

** Explanation I you may possibly say ; what can Eliza-
beth have to explain ? If you really say this, my questions
are answered, and all my doubts satisfied. But you are
distant from me, and it is possible that you may dread,
and yet be pleased with this explanation ; and, in a pro-
bability of this being the case, I dare not any longer
postpone writing what, during your absence, I have often
wished to express to you, but have never had the courage
to begin.

264 FRANKENSTEIN; OR,

** You well know, Victor, that our union had been the
favourite plan of your parents ever since our infancy. We
were told this when young, and taught to look forward
to it as an event that would certainly toke place . We were
affectionate playfellows during childhood, and, I believe,
dear and valued friends to one another as we grew older.
But as brother and sister often entertain a lively affection
towards each other, without desiring a more intimate
union, may not such also be our case? Tell me, dearest
Victor. Answer me, I conjure you, by our mutual hap-
piness, with simple truth— Do you not love another?

" You have travelled ; you have spent several years of
your life at Ingolstadt ; and I confess to you, my friend,
that when I saw you last autumn so unhappy, flying to
solitude, from the society of every creature, I could not
help supposing that you might regret our connection, and
believe yourself bound in honour to fulfil the wishes of
your parents, although they opposed themselves to your
inclinations. But this is false reasoning. I confess to you,
my friend, that I love you, and that in my airy dreams of
futurity you have been my constant friend and companion.
But it is your happiness I desire as well as my own, when
I declare to you, that our marriage would render me eter-
nally miserable, unless it were the dictate of your own free
choice. Even now I weep to think, that, borne down as
you are by the cruellest misfortunes, you may stifle, by
the word honour, all hope of that love and happiness which
would alone restore you to yourself. I, who have so dis.
interested an afl'ection for you, may increase your miseries
tenfold, by being an obstacle to your wishes . Ah 1 Victor,
be assured that your cousin and playmate has too sincere
a love for you not to be made miserable by this supposition.
Be happy, my friend ; and if you obey me in this one

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 265

request, remain satisfied that nothing on earth will have
the power to interrupt my tranquillity.

"Do not let this letter disturb you ; do not answer to-
morrow, or the next day, or even until you come, if it
will give you pain. My uncle will send me news of
your health; and if I see but one sniile on your lips
when we meet, occasioned by this or any other exertion
of mine, I shall need no other happiness.

"Elizabeth Lavenza.

** Geneva, May x8, 17—."

This letter revived in my memory what I had
before forgotten, the threat of the fiend— " /wxV/
"be with you on your wedding night I " Such was my
sentence, and on that night would the daemon
employ every art to destroy me, and tear me from
the glimpse of happiness, which promised partly to
console my sufferings. On that night he had deter-
mined to consummate his crimes by my death*
Well, be it so; a deadly struggle would then
assuredly take place, in which if he were victorious
I should be at peace, and his power over me be at
an end. If he were vanquished, I should be a free
man. Alas I what freedom ? such as the peasant
enjoys when his family have been massacred before
his eyes, his cottage burnt, his lands laid waste,
and he is turned adrift, homeless, penniless, and
alone, but free. Such would be my liberty,
except that in my Elizabeth I possessed a treasure ;
alas! balanced by those horrors of remorse and
guilt, which would pursue me until death.

266 FRANKENSTEIN; OR,

Sweet and beloved Elizabeth I I read and re-
read her letter, and some softened feelings stole
into my heart, and dared to whisper paradisiacal
dreams of love and joy ; but the apple was already
eaten, and the angel's arm bared to drive me from
all hope. Yet I would die to make her happy.
If the monster executed his threat, death was in-
evitable ; yet, again, I considered whether my
marriage would hasten my fate. My destruction
might indeed arrive a few months sooner ; but if
my torturer should suspect that I postponed it,
influenced by his menaces, he would surely find
other, and perhaps more dreadful means of revenge.
He had vowed to be with ine on my ufeddittg night,
yet he did not consider that threat as binding him
to peace in the meantime ; for, as if to show me
that he was not yet satiated with blood, he had
murdered Clerval immediately after the enuncia-
tion of his threats. I resolved, therefore, that if
my immediate union with my cousin would con-
duce either to hers or my father's happiness, my
adversary's designs against my life should not
retard it a single hour.

In this state of mind I wrote to Elizabeth. My
letter was calm and affectionate. "I fear, my
beloved girl," I said, " little happiness remains for
us on earth; yet all that I may one day enjoy
is centred in you. Chase away your idle fears ;
to you alone do I consecrate my life, and my
endeavours for contentment. I have one secret,

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 267

Elizabeth, a dreadful one ; when revealed to yoa,
it will chill your frame with horror, and then, far
from being surprised at my misery, you will only
wonder that I survive what I have endured. I
will confide this tale of misery and terror to you
the day after our marriage shall take place ; for,
nay sweet cousin, there must be perfect confidence
between us. But until then, I conjure you, do
not mention or allude to it. This I most earnestly
entreat, and I know you will comply."

In about a week after the arrival of Elizabeth's
letter, we returned to Geneva. The sweet girl
welcomed me with warm affection ; yet tears were
in her eyes, as she beheld my emaciated frame
and feverish cheeks. I saw a change in her also.
She was thinner, and had lost much of that
heavenly vivacity that had before charmed me ;
but her gentleness, and soft looks of compassion,
made her a more fit companion for one blasted
and miserable as I was.

The tranquillity which I now enjoyed did not
jendure. Memory brought madness with it ; and
when I thought of what had passed, a real insanity
possessed me ; sometimes I was furious, and burnt
with rage ; sometimes low and despondent. I
neither spoke, nor looked at any one, but sat
motionless, bewildered by the multitude of miseries
that overcame me.

Elizabeth alone had the power to draw me from
these fits ; her gentle voice would soothe me when

268 FRANKENSTEIN; OR,

transported by passion, and inspire me with human
feelings when sunk in torpor. She wept with me,
and for me. When reason returned, she would
remonstrate, and endeavour to inspire me with
resignation. Ah ! it is well for the unfortunate
to be resigned, but for the guilty there is no
peace. The agonies of remorse poison the luxury
there is otherwise sometimes found in indulging
the excess of grief.

Soon after my arrival, my father spoke of my
immediate marriage with Elizabeth. I remained
silent.

** Have you, then, some other attachment?"

"None on earth. I love Elizabeth, and look
forward to our union with delight. Let the day
therefore be fixed; and on it I will consecrate
myself, in life or death, to the happiness of my
cousin."

" My dear Victor, do not speak thus. Heavy
misfortunes have befallen us; but let us only
cling closer to what remains, and transfer our
love for those whom we have lost to those who yet
live. Our circle will be small, but bound close by
the ties of affection and mutual misfortune. And
when time shall have softened your despair, new
and dear objects of care will be bom to replace
those of whom we have been so cruelly de-
prived."

Such were the lessons of my father. But to
me the remembrance of the threat returned : nor

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 269

can you wonder, that, omnipotent as the fiend had
yet been in his deeds of blood, I should almost
regard him as invincible ; and that when he had
pronounced the words, ** I shall be with you on
your wedding-night," I should regard the threat-
ened fate as unavoidable. But death was no evil to
me, if the loss of Elizabeth were balanced with it ;
and I therefore, with a contented and even cheer-
ful countenance, agreed with my father, that if
my cousin would consent, the ceremony should
take place in ten days, and thus put, as I ima-
gined, the seal to my fate.

Great God ! if for one instant I had thought
what might be the hellish intention of my fiendish
adversary, I would rather have banished myself
for ever from my native countr}', and wandered
a friendless outcast over the earth, than have
consented to this miserable marriage. But, as
if possessed of magic powers, the monster had
blinded me to his real intentions ; and when I
thought that I had prepared only my own death,
I hastened that of a far dearer victim.

As the period fixed for our marriage drew nearer,
whether from cowardice or a prophetic feeling, I
felt my heart sink within me. But I concealed my
feelings by an appearance of hilarity, that brought
smiles and joy to the countenance of my father,
but hardly deceived the ever-watchful and nicer
eye of Elizabeth. She looked forward to our
union with placid contentment, not unmingled

270 FRANKENSTEIN; OR,

with a little fear, which past misfortunes had
impressed, that what now appeared certain and
tangible happiness, might soon dissipate into an
airy dream, and leave no trace but deep and
everlasting regret.

Preparations were made for the event; con-
gratulatory visits were received ; and all wore a
smiling appearance. I shut up, as well as I could,
in my own heart the anxiety tliat preyed there, and
entered with seeming earnestness into the plans of
my father, although they might only serve as the
decorations of my tragedy. Through my father's
exertions, a part of the inheritance of Elizabeth had
been restored to her by the Austrian Government.
A small possession on the shores of Como belonged
to her. It was agreed that, immediately after our
union, we should proceed to Villa Lavenza, and
spend our first days of happiness beside the beauti-
ful lake near which it stood.

In the meantime I took every precaution to
defend my person, in case the fiend should openly
attack me. I carried pistols and a dagger constantly
about me, and was ever on the watch to prevent
artifice ; and by these means gained a greater degree
of tranquillity. Indeed, as the period approached,
the threat appeared more as a delusion, not to be
regarded as worthy to disturb my peace, while the
happiness I hoped for in my marriage wore a
greater appearance of certainty, as the day fixed
for its solemnisation drew nearer, and I heard it

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 27 1

continually spoken of as an occurrence which no
accident could possibly prevent,

Elizabeth seemed happy; my tranquil demeanour
contributed greatly to calm her mind. But on the
day that was to fulfil my wishes and my destiny,
she was melancholy, and a presentiment of evil
pervaded her; and perhaps also she thought of
the dreadful secret which I had promised to reveal
to her on the following day. My father was in
the meantime overjoyed, and, in the bustle of
preparation, only recognised in the melancholy of
his niece the diffidence of a bride.

After the ceremony was performed, a large party
assembled at my father's ; but it was agreed that
Elizabeth and I should commence our journey by
water, sleeping that night at Evian, and continuing
our voyage on the following day. The day was
fair, the wind favourable, all smiled on our nuptial
embarkation.

Those were the last moments of my life durftig
which I enjoyed the feeling of happiness. We
passed rapidly along: the sun was hot, but we
were sheltered from its rays by a kind of canopy,
while we enjoyed the beauty of the scene, some-
times on one side of the lake, where we saw Mont
Sal^ve, the pleasant banks of Montal^gre, and at
a distance, surmounting all, the beautiful Mont
Blanc, and the assemblage of snowy mountains
that in vain endeavour to emulate her ; sometimes
coasting the opposite banks, we saw the mighty

272 FRANKENSTEIN; OR,

Jura opposing its dark side to the ambition that
would quit its native country, and ' an almost
insurmountable barrier to the invader who should
wish to enslave it.

I took the hand of Elizabeth : " You are sorrow-
ful, my love. Ah ! if you knew what I have
suffered, and what I may yet endure, you would
endeavour to let me taste the quiet and freedom
from despair, that this one day at least permits me
to enjoy."

** Be happy, my dear Victor," replied Elizabeth ;
** there is, I hope, nothing to distress you ; and be
assured that if a lively joy is not painted in my
face, my heart is contented. Something whispers
to me not to depend too much on the prospect that
is opened before us ; but I will not listen to such a
sinister voice. Observe how fast we move along,
and how the clouds, which sometimes obscure and
sometimes rise above the dome of Mont Blanc,
render this scene of beauty still more interesting.
Look also at the innumerable fish that are swim-
ming in the clear waters, where we can distinguish
every pebble that lies at the bottoni. What a divine
day I how happy and serene all nature appears I "

Thus Elizabeth endeavoured to diverther thoughts
and mine from all reflection upon melancholy sub-
jects. But her temper was fluctuating ; joy for a
few instants shone in her eyes, but it continually
gave place to distraction and reverie.

The sun sunk lower in the heavens ; we passed

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 273

the river Drance, and observed its path through the
chasms of the higher, and the glens of the lower
hills. The Alps here come closer to the lake, and
we approached the amphitheatre of mountains
which forms its eastern boundary. The spire of
Evian shone under the woods that surrounded it,
and the range of mountain above mountain by
which it was overhung.

The wind, which had hitherto carried us along
with amazing rapidity, sunk at sunset to a light
breeze; the soft air just ruffled the water, and
caused a pleasant motion among the trees as we
approached the shore, from which it wafted the
most delightful scent of flowers and hay. The sun
sunk beneath the horizon as we landed ; and as I
touched the shore, I felt those cares and fears revive,
which soon were to clasp me, and cling to me for
ever.

CHAPTER XXIII.

It was eight o'clock when we landed ; we walked
for a short time on the shore, enjoying the transi-
tory light, and then retired to the inn, and contem-
plated the lovely scene of waters, woods, and
mountains, obscured in darkness, yet still displa5^ing
their black outlines.

The wind, which had fallen in the south, now
rose with great violence in the west. The moon

274 FRANKENSTEIN; OR,

had reached her summit in the heavens^ and was
beginning to descend ; the clouds swept across it
swifter than the flight of the vuhure, and dimmed
her rays, while the lake reflected the scene of the
busy heavens, rendered still busier by the restless
waves that were beginning to rise. Suddenly a
heavy storm of rain descended.

I had been calm during the day ; but so soon as
night obscured the shapes of objects, a thousand
fears arose in my mind. I was anxious and watch-
ful, while my right hand grasped a pistol which
was hidden in my bosom ; every sound terrified
me ; but I resolved that I would sell my life dearly,
and not shrink from the conflict until my own life,
or that of my adversary, was extinguished.

Elizabeth observed my agitation for some time
in timid and fearful silence ; but there was some-
thing in my glance which communicated terror to
her, and trembling she asked, "What is it that
agitates you, my dear Victor? What is it you
fear?"

" Oh I peace, peace, my love," replied I, " this
night, and all will be safe : but this night is dread-
ful, very dreadful."

I passed an hour in this state of mind, when
suddenly I reflected how fearful the combat which
I momentarily expected would be to my wife, and
I earnestly entreated her to retire, resolving not to
join her until I had obtained some knowledge as to
the situation of my enemy.

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 275.

She left me, and I continued ?ome time walking
up and down the passages of the house, and in-
specting every comer that might afford a retreat to
my adversary. But I discovered no trace of him,
and was beginning to conjecture that some fortunate
chance had intervened to prevent the execution of
his menaces ; when suddenly I heard a shrill and
dreadful scream. It came from the room into which
Ehzabeth had retired. As I heard it, the whole^
truth rushed into my mind, my arms dropped, the
motion of every muscle and fibre was suspended ;
I could feel the blood trickling in my veins, and
•tingling in the extremities of my limbs. This
state lasted but for an instant; the scream was
repeated, and I rushed into the room.

Great God ! why did I not then expire ? Why
am I here to relate the destruction of the best
hope, and the purest creature of earth ? She was
there, lifeless and inanimate, thrown across the
bed, her head hanging down, and her pale and dis-
torted features half covered by her hair. Every-
where I turn I see the same figure — her bloodless^
arms and relaxed form flung by the murderer oh
its bridal bier. Could I behold this, and live?
Alas I life is obstinate, and clings closest where it
is most hated. For a moment only did I lose
recollection ; I fell senseless on the ground.

When I recovered, I found myself surrounded
by the people of the inn; their countenances
expressed a breathless terror; but the horror of

276 FRANKENSTEIN; OR,

Others appeared only as a mockery, a shadow of
the feelings that oppressed me. I escaped from
them to the room where lay the body of Elizabeth,
my love, my wife, so lately living, so dear, so
worthy. She had been moved from the posture
in which I had first beheld her ; and now, as she
lay, her head upon her arm, and a handkerchief
thrown across her face and neck, I might have
supposed her asleep. I rushed towards her, and
embraced her with ardour ; but the deadly languor
and coldness of the limbs told me, that what I now
held in my arms had ceased to be the Elizabeth
whom I had loved and cherished. The murderous
mark of the fiend's grasp was on her neck, and the
breath had ceased to issue from her lips.

While I still hung over her in the agony of
despair, I happened to look up. The windows of
the room had before been darkened, and I felt a
kind of panic on seeing the pale yellow light of the
moon illuminate the chamber. The shutters had
been thrown back ; and with a sensation of horror
not to be described, I saw at the open window a
figure the most hideous and abhorred. A grin
was on the face of the monster ; he seemed to
jeer, as with his fiendish finger he pointed towards
the corpse of my wife. I rushed towards the
window, and drawing a pistol from my bosom,
fired ; but he eluded me, leaped from his station,
and, running with the swiftness of lightning,
plunged into the lake.

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 277

The report of the pistol brought a crowd into
the room. I pointed to the spot where he had
disappeared, and we followed the track with boats ;
nets were cast, but in vain. After passing several
hours, we returned hopeless, most of my com-
panions believing it to have been a form conjured
up by my fancy. After having landed, they pro-
ceeded to search the country, parties going in
different directions among the woods and vines.

I attempted to accompany them, and proceeded
a short distance from the house; but my head
whirled round, my steps were like those of a
drunken man, I fell at last in a state of utter ex-
haustion ; a film covered my eyes, and my skin
was parched with the heat of fever. In this state
I was carried back, and placed on a bed, hardly
conscious of what had happened ; my eyes wan-
dered round the room^ as if to seek something
that I had lost.

After an interval, I arose, as if by instinct, and
crawled into the room where the corpse of my be-
loved lay. There were women weeping around —
I hung over it, and joined my sad tears to theirs.
All this time no distinct idea presented itself to my
mind ; but my thoughts rambled to various subjects,
reflecting confusedly on my misfortunes, and their
cause. I was bewildered in a cloud of wonder
and horror. The death of William, the execution
of Justine, the murder of Clerval, and lastly of my
wife ; even at that moment I knew not that my

^78 FRANKENSTEIN; OR,

only remaining friends were safe from die malig-
nity of the fiend ; my father even now might be
writhing under his grasp, and Ernest might be
dead at his feet. This idea made me shudder, and
recalled me to action. I started up, and resolved
to return to Geneva with all possible speed.

There were no horses to be procured, and I must
return by the lake ; but the wind was unfavourable,
and the rain fell in torrents. However, it was
hardly morning, and I might reasonably hope to
arrive by night. " I hired men to row, and took an
oar myself; for I had always experienced relief
from mental torment in bodily exercise. But the
overflowing misery I now felt, and the excess of
agitation that I endured, rendered me incapable of
any exertion. I threw down the oar ; and leaning
my head upon my hands, gave way to every gloomy
idea that arose. If I looked up, I saw the scenes
which were familiar to me in my happier time, and
which I had contemplated but the day before in the
company of her. who was now but a shadow and a
recollection. Tears streamed from my eyes. The
rain had ceased for a moment, and I saw the fish
play in the waters as they had done a few hours
before ; they had then been observed by Elizabeth.
Nothing is so painful to the human mind as a great
and sudden change. The sun might shine, or the
clouds might lower : but nothing could appear to
me as it had done the day before. A fiend had
snatched from me every hope of future happiness :

^f-

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 279

no creature had ever been so miserable as I was ;
so frightful an event is single in the history of
man.

But why should I dwell upon the incidents that
followed this last overwhelming event ? Mine has
been a tale of horrors ; I have reached their acme,
and what I must now relate can but be tedious to
you. Know that, one by one, my friends were
snatched away; I was left, desolate. My own
strength is exhausted ; and I must tell, in a few
words, what remains of my hideous narration.

I arrived at Geneva. My father and Ernest yet
lived ; but the former sunk under the tidings that
I bore. I see him now, excellent and venerable
old man ! his e5res wandered in vacancy, for they
had lost their charm and their delight — his Eliza-
beth, his more than daughter, whom he doated on
with all that affection which a man feels, who in
the decline of life, having few affections, clings
more earnestly to those that remain. Cursed,
cursed be the fiend that brought misery on his
grey hairs, and doomed him to waste in wretched-
ness ! He could not live under the horrors that
were accumulated around him ; the springs of
existence suddenly gave way: he was unable to
rise from his bed, and in a few days he died in
my arms.

What then became of me ? I know not ; I lost
sensation, and chains and darkness were the only
objects that pressed upon me. Sometimes, indeed,

280 FRANKENSTEIN; OR,

I dreamt that I wandered in flowery meadows and
pleasant vales with the friends of my youth ; but
I awoke, and found myself in a dungeon. Melan-
choly followed, but by degrees I gained a clear
conception of my miseries and situation, and
was then released from my prison. For they
had called me mad ; and during many months,
as I understood, a solitary cell had been my habi-
tation.

Liberty, however, had been an useless gift to me,
had I not, as I awakened to reason, at the same
time awakened to revenge. As the memory of
past misfortunes pressed upon me, I began to reflect
on their cause — the monster whom I had created,
the miserable daemon whom I had sent abroad into
the world for my destruction. I was possessed by
a maddening rage when I thought of him, and
desired and ardently prayed that I might have him
within my grasp to wreak a great and signal revenge
on his cursed head.

Nor did my hate long confine itself to useless
wishes ; I began to reflect on the best means of
securing him ; and for this purpose, about a month
after my release, I repaired to a criminal judge in
the town, and told him that I had an accusation to
make ; that I knew the destroyer of my family ;
and that I required him to exert his whole authority
for the apprehension of the murderer.

The magistrate listened to me with attention and
kindness — **Be assured, sir," said he, **no pains

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 28 1

or exertions on my part shall be spared to discover
the villain."

** I thank you," replied I ; ** listen, therefore, to
the deposition that I have to make. It is indeed a
tale so strange, that I should fear you would not
credit it, were there not something in truth which,
however wonderful, forces conviction. The story
is too connected to be mistaken for a dream, and I
have no motive for falsehood." My manner, as I
thus addressed him, was impressive, but calm ; I
had formed in my own hedrt a resolution to pursue
pay destroyer to death ; and this purpose quieted
my agony, and for an interval reconciled me to
life. I now related my history, briefly, but \^nth
firmness and precision, marking the dates with
accuracy, and never deviating into invective or
exclamation.

The magistrate appeared at first perfectly in-
credulous, but as I continued he became more
attentive and interested ; I saw him sometimes
shudder with horror, at others a lively surprise,
unmingled with disbelief, was painted on his
countenance.

When I had concluded my narration, I said,
** This is the being whom I accuse, and for whose
seizure and punishment I call upon you to exert
your whole power. It is your duty as a magistrate,
and I believe and hope that your feelings as a
man will not revolt from the execution of those
functions on this occasion."

2^2 FRANKENSTEIN; OER,

This address caused a considerable change in
the physiognomy of my own auditor. He had
heard my story with that half kind of belief that
is given to a tale of spirits and supernatural events;
but when he was called upon to act officially in
consequence, the whole tide of his incredulity
returned. He, however,, answered mildly, "I
would willingly aflford yon every aid in your
pursuit; but the creature of whom yoo speak
appears to have powers which would put all my
exertions to defiance. Who can follow an animal
which can traverse the sea of ice, and inhabit
caves and dens where no man would venture to
intrude ? Besides, some months have elapsed siiKe
the ccHxmiission of his crimes^ and no one can
cofl}ecture to what place he has wandered, or what
region he may now inhabit."

** 1 do not doubt tliat he hovers near the spot
which I inhabit ; and if he has indeed taken reliige
in the Alps, he may be hunted Kke the chamois^
and destroyed as a beast of prey. But I percdve
your thoughts: you do not credit my narrative,
and do not intend to pursue my enemy with the
punislmient which is his desert,**

As I spoke, rage sparkled in my e)res ; tlie magis-
trate was intimidated. " You are mistaken," said
he, "1 will exert mysdf ; and if it is in my power
to seize the monster, be assured that he sliall suffer
punishment proportionate to his crimes. But I
fear, from what you have yourself described to be

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 2S3

his properties, that this will prove impracticable ;
and thus, while every proper measure is pursued,
you should make up 3'our mind to disappoint-
ment."

"That cannot be; but all that I can say will
be of little avail. My revenge is of no moment
to you ; yet, while I allow it to be a vice, I confess
that it is the devouring and only passion of my
souL My rage is unspeakable, when I reflect
that the murderer, whom I have turned loose
upon society, still exists. You refuse my just
demand : I have but one resource ; and I devote
myself, either in my life or death, to his destruc-
tion."

I trembled with excess of agitation as I said
this ; there was a freiuy in my manner, and some-
thing, I doubt not, of that haughty fierceness which
the martyrs of old are said to have possessed. But
to a Genevan magistrate, whose mind was occu-
pied by far other ideas than those of devotion and
heroism, this elevation of mind had much the
appearance of madness. He endeavoured to soothe
me as a nurse does a child, and reverted to my
tale as the effects of delirium.

**Man," I cried, "how ignorant art thou in
thy pride of wisdom I Cease; you know not
what it is you say."

I broke from tlie house angry and disturbed,
and retired to meditate on some other mode of
action.

284 FRANKENSTEIN; OR,

CHAPTER XXIV.

My present situation was one in which all voluntary
thought was swallowed up and lost. I was hurried
away by fury; -revenge alone endowed me with
strength and composure ; it moulded my feelings,
and allowed me to be calculating and calm, at
periods when otherwise delirium or death would
have been my portion.

My first resolution was to quit Geneva for
ever ; my country, which, when I was happy
and beloved, was dear to me, now, in my adver-
sity, became hateful. I provided myself with a
sum of money, together with a few jewels which
had belonged to my mother, and departed.

And now my wanderings began, which are to
cease but with life. I have traversed a vast portion
of the earth, and have endured all the hardships
which travellers, in deserts and barbarous coun-
tries, are wont to meet. How I have lived, I
hardly know; many times have I stretched my
failing limbs upon the sandy plain, and prayed for
death, but revenge kept me alive; I dared not
die, and leave my adversary in being.

When I quitted Geneva, my first labour was
to gain some clue by which I might trace the
steps of my fiendish enemy. But my plan was
unsettled ; and I w*andered many hours round the
confines of the town, uncertain what path I should

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 28$

pursue. As night approached, I found myself at
the entrance of the cemetery where William,
Elizabeth, and my father reposed. I entered it,
and approached the tomb which marked their
graves. Everything was silent, except the leaves
of the trees, which were gently agitated by the
wind ; the night was nearly dark ; and the scene
would have been solemn and affecting even to an
uninterested observer. The spirits of the departed
seemed to flit around, and to cast a shadow, which
was felt, but not seen, around the head of the
mourner.

The deep grief which this scene had at first
excited quickly gave way to rage and despair.
They were dead, and I lived ; their murderer
also lived, and to destroy him I must drag out my
weary existence. I knelt on the grass, and kissed
the earth, and with quivering lips exclaimed, " By
the sacred earth on which I kneel, by the shades
that wander near me, by the deep and eternal
grief that I feel, I swear ; and by thee, O Night,
and the spirits that preside over thee, to pursue
the daemon who caused this misery, until he or I
shall perish in mortal conflict. For this purpose
I will preserve my life : to execute this dear
revenge, will I again behold the sun, and tread
the green herbage of earth, which otherwise
should vanish from my eyes for ever. And I call
on you, spirits of the dead ; and on you, wander-
ing ministers of vengeance, to aid and conduct me

286 FRANKENSTEIN; OR,

in my work. Let the cursed and hellish monster
drink deep of agony ; let him feel the despair that
now torments me."

I had began my adjuration with solemnity, and
an awe which almost assured me that the shades
of my murdered friends heard and approved my
devotion ; but the furies possessed me as I con-
cluded, and rage choked my utterance.

I was answered through the stillness of the night
by a loud and fiendish laugh. It rung on my ears
long and heavily ; the mountains re-echoed it, and
I felt as if all hell surrounded me with mockery
and laughter. Surely in that moment I should
have been possessed by frenzy, and have destroyed
my miserable existence, but that my vow was
heard, and that I was reserved for vengeance.
The laughter died away; when a well-known
and abhorred voice, apparently close to my ear,
addressed me in an audible whisper — ** I am satis-
fied : miserable wretch I you have determined to
live, and I am satisfied."

I darted towards the spot from which the
sound proceeded ; but the devil eluded my grasp.
Suddenly the broad disk of the moon arose, and
shone full upon his ghastly and distorted shape, as
he fled with more than mortal speed.

I pursued him ; and for many months this has
been my task. Guided by a slight clue, I followed
the windings of the Rlione, but vainly. The blue
Mediterranean appeared ; and, by a strange chance,

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 287

I saw the fiend enter by night, and hide himself
in a vessel bound for the Black Sea. I took my
passage in the same ship ; but he escaped, I know
not how.

Amidst the ^ilds of Tartary and Russia,
although he still evaded me, I have ever followed
in bis track. Sometimes the peasants, scared by
diis horrid apparition, informed me of his path ;
sometimes be himself, who feared that if I lost all
trace of him, I should despair and die, left some
mark to guide me. The snows descended on my
head, and I saw the print of his huge step on the
white plain. To you first entering on life, to
whom care is new, and agony unknown, how can
you understand what I liave felt, and still feel?
Cold, want, and fatigue, were the least pains
which I was destined tt> endure ; I was cursed by
some devil, and carried about with me my eternal
hell ; yet still a spirit of good followed and
directed my steps; and, when I most murmured,
would suddenly extricate me from seemingly
insurmountable difficulties. Sometimes, when
nature, overcome by hunger, sunk under the
exhaustion, a repast was prepared for me in the
desert, that restored and inspirited me. The fare
was, indeed, coarse, such as the peasants of tlie
country ate ; but I will not doubt that it was set
there by the spirits that I had invoked to aid me.
Oft«i, when all was dry, the heavens cloudless,
and I was parched by thirst, a slight cloud would

288 FRANKENSTEIN; OR,

bedim the sky, shed the few drops that revived me,
and vanish.

I followed, when I could, the courses of the
rivers ; but the daemon generally avoided these, as
it was here that the population of the country
chiefly collected. In other places human beings
were seldom seen: and I generally subsisted on
the wild animals that crossed my path. I had
money with me, and gained the friendship of the
villagers by distributing it ; or I brought with me
some food that I had killed, which, after taking a
small part, I always presented to those who had
provided me with fire and utensils for cooking.

My life, as it passed thus, was indeed hateful to
me, and it was during sleep alone that I could
taste joy. O blessed sleep! often, when most
miserable, I sank to repose, and my dreams lulled
me even to rapture. The spirits that guarded me
had provided these moments, or rather hours, of
happiness, that I might retain strength to fulfil my
pilgrimage. Deprived of this respite, I should
have sunk under my hardships. During the day
I was sustained and inspirited by the hope of night :
for in sleep I saw my friends, my wife, and my
beloved country ; again I saw the benevolent
countenance of my father, heard the silver tones
of my Elizabeth's voice, and beheld Clerval enjoy-
ing health and youth. Often, when wearied by
a toilsome march, I persuaded myself that I was
dreaming until night should come, and that I

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 289

should then enjoy reality in the arms of my dearest
friends. What agonising fondness did I feel for
them 1 how did I cling to their dear forms, as
sometimes they haunted even my waking hours,
and persuade myself that they still lived ! At such
moments, vengeance, that burned within me, died
in my heart, and I pursued my path towards the
destruction of the daemon, more as a task enjoined
by heaven, as the mechanical impulse of some
power of which I was unconscious, than as the
ardent desire of my soul.

What his feelings were whom I pursued I can-
not know. Sometimes, indeed, he left marks in
writing on the barks of the trees, or cut in stone,
that guided me, and instigated my fury. *'My
reign is not yet over," (these words were legible
in one of these inscriptions ;) " you live, and my
power is complete. Follow me ; I seek the ever-
lasting ices of the north, where you will feel the
misery of cold and frost, to which I am impassive.
You will find near this place, if you follow not too
tardily, a dead hare ; eat, and be refreshed. Come
on, my enemy; we have yet to wrestle for our
lives; but many hard and miserable hours must
you endure until that period shall arrive."

Scoffing devil ! Again do I vow vengeance ;
again do I devote thee, miserable fiend, to torture
and death. Never will I give up my search, until
he or I perish ; and then with what ecstasy shall I
join my Elizabeth, and my departed friends, who

(31) ^

.^90 FRANKENSTEIN; OR,

•even now prepare for me the reward of my tedious
toil and horrible pilgrimage I

As I still pursued my journey to the northward,
the snows thickened, and the cold increased in a
d^ree almost too severe to support The peasants
were shut up in their hovels, and only a few of
the most hardy ventured" forth to seize the animals
whom starvation had forced from their hiding-
places to seek for prey. The rivers were covered
with ice, and no fish could be procured; and
thus I was cut off from my chief article of main-
tenance.

The triumph of my enemy increased with the
-difficulty of my labours. One inscription that he
left was in these words: — "Prepare I your toils
only begin: wrap yourself In furs, and provide
food ; for we shall soon enter upon a journey
where your sufferings will satisfy my everlasting
hatred.''

My courage and perseverance were invigorated
by these scoffing words ; I resolved not to fail in
my purpose ; and, calling on Heaven to support
me, I continued with unabated fervour to traverse
immense deserts, until the ocean appeared at a dis-
tance, and formed the utmost boundary of the
horizon. Oh I how unlike it was to the blue seas
of the south ! Covered with ice, it was only to
be distinguished from land by its superior wildness
^nd ruggedness. The Greeks wept for joy when
they beheld the Mediterranean from the hills of

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 29 1

Asia, and hailed with rapture the boundary of
their toils. I did not weep ; but I knelt down,
and, with a full heart, thanked my guiding spirit
for conducting me in safety to the place where I
hoped, notwithstanding my adversary's gibe, to
meet and grapple with hipi.

Some weeks before this period I had procured
a sledge and dogs, and thus traversed tlie snowls
with inconceivable speed. I know not whether
the fiend possessed the same advantages; but I
found that, as before I had daily lost ground in
the pursuit, I now gained on him : so much so,
that when I first saw the ocean, he was but one
day's journey in advance, and I hoped to intercept
him before he should reach the beach. With
new courage, therefore, I pressed on, and in two
days arrived at a wretched hamlet on the sea-
shore. I inquired of the inhabitants concerning
the fiend, and gained accurate information. A
gigantic monster, they said, had arrived the night
before, armed with a gun and many pistols ; putting
to flight the inhabitants of a solitary cottage,
through fear of his terrific appearance. He had
carried off their store of winter food, and, placing
it in a sledge, to draw which he had seized on a
numerous drove of trained dogs, he had harnessed
them, and the same night, to the joy of the horror-
struck villagers, had pursued his journey across the
sea in a direction that led to no land ; and they
conjectured that he must speedily be destroyed by

292 FRANKENSTEIN; OR,

the breaking of the ice, or frozen by the eternal
frosts.

On hearing this information, I suffered a tem-
porary access of despair. He had escaped me;
and I must commence a destructive and almost
endless journey across the mountainous ices of the
ocean, — amidst cold that few of the inhabitants
could long endure, and which I, the native of a
genial and sunny climate, could not hope to sur-
vive. Yet at the idea that the fiend should live
and be triumphant, my rage and vengeance re-
tumed, and, like a mighty tide, overwhelmed
every other feeling. After a slight repose, during
which the spirits of the dead hovered round, and
instigated me to toil and revenge, I prepared for
my journey.

I exchanged my land-sledge for one fashioned
for the inequalities of the Frozen Ocean ; and pur-
chasing a plentiful stock of provisions, I departed
from land.

I cannot guess how many days have passed
since then ! but I have endured misery, which
nothing but the eternal sentiment of a just retribu-
tion buming within my heart could have enabled
me to support. Immense and rugged mountains
of ice often barred up my passage, and I often
heard the thunder of the ground sea, which
threatened my destruction. But again the frost
came, and made the paths of the sea secure.

By the quantity of provision which I had con-

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 293

sumed, I should guess that I had passed three
weeks in this journey ; and the continual protrac-
tion of hope, returning back upon the heart, often
wrung bitter drops of despondency and grief from
my eyes. Despair had indeed almost secured her
prey, and I should soon have sunk beneath this
misery. Once, after the poor animals that con-
veyed me had with incredible toil gained the
summit of a sloping ice-mountain, and one, sink-
ing under his fatigue, died, I viewed the expanse
before me with anguish ; when suddenly my eye
caught a dark speck upon the dusky plain. I
strained my sight to discover what it could be,
and uttered a wild cry of ecstasy when I distin-
guished a sledge, and the distorted proportions of
a well-known form within. Oh! with what a
burning gush did hope revisit my heart! warm
tears filled my eyes, which I hastily wiped away,
that they might not intercept the view I had of
the daemon; but still my sight was dimmed by
the burning drops, until, giving way to the emo-
tions that oppressed me, I wept aloud.

But this was not the time for delay : I disen-
cumbered the dogs of their dead companion, gave
them a plentiful portion of food; and, after an
hour's rest, which was absolutely necessary, and
yet which was bitterly irksome to me, I continuecf
my route. The sledge was still visible ; nor did
I again lose sight of it, except at the moments
when for a short time some ice-rock concealed it

294 FRANKENSTEIK ; OR,

with its intervening crags. I indeed perceptibly
gained on it ; and when, after nearly two days'
journey, I beheld my enemy at no more than a
mile distant, my heart bounded within me.

But now, when I appeared almost within grasp
of my foe, my hopes were suddenly extinguished,
and 1 lost all trace of him more utterly than I had
ever done before. A ground sea was heard ; the
thunder of its progress, as the waters rolled and
swelled beneath me, became every moment more
ominous and terrific, I pressed on, but in vain.
The wind arose ; the sea roared ; and, as vnth
the mighty shock of an earthquake, it split, and
cracked with a tremendous and overwhelming
sound. The work was soon finished : in a few
minutes a tumultuous sea rolled between me and
my enemy, and I was left drifting on a scattered
piece of ice, that was continually lessening, and
thus preparing for me a hideous death.

In this manner many appalling hours passed ;
several of my dogs died ; and I myself was about
to sink under the accumulation of distress, when
I saw your vessel riding at anchor, and holding
forth to me hopes of succour and life. I had no
conception that vessels ever came so far north, and
was astounded at the sight. I quickly destroyed
part of my sledge to construct oars ; and by these
means was enabled, with infinite fatigue, to move
my ice-raft in the direction of your ship. I had
determined, if you were going southward, still to

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 295.

trust myself to the mercy of the seas rather than
abandon my purpose. I hoped to induce you to
grant me a boat with which I could pursue my
enemy. But your direction was northward. You
took me on board when my vigour was exhausted^
and I should soon have sunk under my multiplied
hardships into a death which I still dread — ^for my
task is unfulfilled.

Oh I when will my guiding spirit, in conducting
me to the daemon, allow me the rest I so much
desire ; or must I die, and he yet live ? If I do,
swear to me, Walton, that he shall not escape ;
that you will seek him, and satisfy my vengeance
in his death. And do I dare to ask of you to
undertake my pilgrimage, to endure the hardships
that I have undergone? No ; I am not so selfish.
Yet, when I am dead, if he should appear ; if the
ministers of vengeance should conduct him to you,
swear that he shall not live — swear that he shall
not triumph over my accumulated woes, and sur-
vive to add to the list of his dark crimes. He is
eloquent and persuasive ; and once his words had
even power over my heart : but trust him not.
His soul is as hellish as his form, full of treachery
and fiendlike malice. Hear him not ; call on the
names of William, Justine, Clerval, Elizabeth, my
fath^, and of the wretched Victor, and thrust your
. sword into his heart. I will hover near, and direct
the steel aright.

296 FRANKEKSTEIN ; OR,

WaltoNi in continuation,

August 26, 17 — ,

You have read this strange and terrific story,
Margaret ; and do you not feel your blood congeal
with horror, like that which even now curdles
mine ? Sometimes, seized with sudden agony, he
could not continue his tale ; at others, his voice
broken, yet piercing, uttered with diflSculty the
words so replete with anguish. His fine and
lovely eyes were now lighted up with indignation,
now subdued to downcast sorrow, and quenched
in infinite wretchedness. Sometimes he com-
manded his countenance and tones, and related
the most horrible incidents with a tranquil voice,
suppressing every mark of agitation; then, like
a volcano bursting forth, his face would sud-
denly change to an expression of the wildest
rage, as he shrieked out imprecations on his per-
secutor.

His tale is connected, and told with an appear-
ance of the simplest truth ; yet I own to you that
the letters of Felix and Safie, which he showed
me, and the apparition of the monster seen from
our ship, brought to me a greater conviction of
the truth of his narrative than his asseverations,
however earnest and connected. Such a monster .
has then really existence ! I cannot doubt it ; yet
I am lost in surprise and admiration. Sometimes

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 297

I endeavoured to gain from Frankenstein the par-
ticulars of his creature's formation : but on this
point he was impenetrable.

**Are you mad, my friend?" said he; "or
whither does your senseless curiosity lead you?
Would you also create for yourself and the
world a demoniacal enemy? Peace, peace I
learn my miseries, and do not seek to increase
your own."

Frankenstein discovered that I made notes con-
cerning his history : he asked to see them, and
then himself corrected and augmented them in
many places ; but principally in giving the life and
spirit to the conversations he held with his enemy.
"Since you have preserved my narration," said
he, " I would not that a mutilated one should go
down to posterity."

Thus has a week passed away, while I have
listened to the strangest tale that ever imagination
formed. My thoughts, and every feeling of my
soul, have been drunk up by the interest for my
guest, which this tale, and his own elevated and
gentle manners, have created. I wish to soothe
him ; yet can I counsel one so infinitely miserable,
so destitute of every hope of consolation, to live ?
Oh, no I the only joy that he can now know will
be when he composes his shattered spirit to peace
and death. Yet he enjoys one comfort, the off-
spring of solitude and delirium : he belfeves, that,
when in dreams he holds converse with his friends,

K2

298 FRANKENSTEIN; OR,

and derives from that communion consolation for
his miseries, or excitements to his vengeance, that
they are not the creations of his fancy, but the
beings themselves who visit him from the regions
of a remote world. This faith gives a solemnity
to his reveries that render them to me almost as
imposing and interesting as truth.

Our conversations are not always confined to
his own history and misfortunes. On every point
of general literature he displays unbounded know-
ledge, and a quick and piercing apprehension.
His eloquence is forcible and touching ; nor can I
hear him, when he relates a pathetic incident, or
endeavours to move the passions of pity or love,
without tears. What a glorious creature must he
have been in the days of his prosperity,, when
he is thus noble and godlike in ruin I He seems
to feel his own worth, and the greatness of his
fall.

** When younger," said he, "I believed myself
destined for some great enterprise. My feelings
are profound ; but I possessed a coolness of judg-
ment that fitted me for illustrious achievements.
. This sentiment of the worth of my nature supported
me, when others would have been oppressed ; for
I deemed it criminal to throw away in useless
grief those talents that might be useful to my
fellow-creatures. When I reflected on the work I
had completed, no less a one than the creation of
a sensitive and rational animal, I could not rank

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 299

myself with the herd of common projectors. Bat
this thought, which supported me in the com-
mencement of my career, now serves only to
piunge me lower in the dust. All my speculations
and hopes are as nothing ; and, like the archangel
who aspired to omnipotence, I am chained in
an eternal hell. My imagination was vivid, yet
my powers of analysis and application were in-
tense ; by the union of these qualities I conceived
the idea, and executed the creation of a man.
Even now I cannot recollect, without passion, my
reveries while the work was incomplete. I trod
heaven in my thoughts, now exulting in my
powers, now burning with the idea of their effects.
From my infancy I was imbued with high hopes
and a lofty ambition ; but how am I sunk ! Oh !
my friend, if you had known me as I once was,
you would not recognise me in this state of degra-
dation. Despondency rarely visited my heart ; a
high destiny seemed to bear me on, until I fell,
never, never again to rise."

Af ust I then lose this admirable being ? I have
longed for a friend ; I have sought one who would
sympathise with and love me. Behold, on these
desert seas I have found such a one ; but, I fear, I
have gained him only to know his value and lose
him. I would reconcile him to life, but he re-
pulses the idea.

**I thank you, Walton," he said, **for your
kind intentions towards so miserable a wretch ;

300 FRANKENSTEIN; OR,

but when you speak of new ties, and fresh affec-
tions, think you that any can replace those who
are gone? Can any man be to me as Clerval
was ; or any woman another Elizabeth ? Even
where the affections are not strongly moved by
any superior excellence, the companions of our
childhood always possess a certain power over our
minds, which hardly any later friend can obtain.
They know our infantine dispositions, which, how-
ever they may be afterwards modified, are never
eradicated ; and they can judge of our actions with
more certain conclusions as to the integrity of our
motives. A sister or a brother can never, unless
indeed such symptoms have been shown early,
suspect the other of fraud or false dealing, when
another friend, however strongly he may be
attached, may, in spite of himself, be contemplated
with suspicion. But I enjoyed friends, dear not
only through habit and association, but from their
own merits; and wherever I am, the soothing
voice of my Elizabeth, and the conversation of
Clerval, will be ever whispered in my ear. They
are dead ; and but one feeling in such a solitude
can persuade me to preserve my life. If I were
engaged in any high undertaking or design, fraught
with extensive utility to my fellow-creatures, then
could I live to fulfil it. But such is not my
destiny ; I must pursue and destroy the being to
whom I gave existence; then my lot on earth
will be fulfilled, and I may die."

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 3OI

September 2.

My Beloved Sister, — I write to )'ou, encom-
passed by peril, and ignorant whether I am ever
doomed to see again dear England, and the dearer
friends that inhabit it. I am surrounded by moun-
tains of ice, which admit of no escape, and threaten
every moment to crush my vessel. The brave
fellows, whom I have persuaded to be my com-
panions, look towards me for aid ; but I have none
to bestow. There is something terribly appalling
in our situation, yet my courage and hopes do not
desert me. Yet it is terrible to reflect that the
lives of all these men are endangered through me.
If we are lost, my mad schemes are the cause.

And what, Margaret, will be the state of your
mind ? You will not hear of my destruction, and
you will anxiously await my return. Years will
pass, and you will have visitings of despair, and yet
be tortured by hope. Oh I my beloved sister, the
sickening failing of your heartfelt expectations is,
in prospect, more terrible to me than my own
death. But you have a husband, and lovely
children ; you may be happy : Heaven bless you,
and make you so !

My unfortunate guest regards me with the ten-
derest compassion. He endeavours to fill me with
hope ; and talks as if life were a possession which
he valued. He reminds me how often the same
accidents have happened to other navigators, who

302 FRANKENSTEIN; OR^

have attempted this sea, and, in spite of myself, he
fills me with cheerful auguries. Even the sailors
feel the power of his eloquence : when he speaks,
they no longer despair ; he rouses their energies,
and, while they hear his voice, they believe these
vast mountains of ice are mole-hUls, which will
vanish before the resolutions of man. These
feelings are transitory; each day of expectation
delayed fills them with fear, and I almost dread a
mutiny caused by tliis despair.

September 5.

A scene has just passed of such uncommon
interest, that although it is highly probable that
these papers may never reach you, yet I cannot
forbear recording it.

We are still surrounded by mountains of ice,
still in imminent danger of being crushed in their
conflict. The cold is excessive, and many of my
unfortunate comrades have already found a grave
amidst this scene of desolation. Frankenstein
has daily declined in health : a feverish fire still
glimmers in his eyes ; but he is exhausted, and,
when suddenly roused to any exertion, he speedily
sinks again into apparent lifelessness.

I mentioned in my last letter the fears I enter-
tained of a mutiny. This morning, as I sat
watching the wan countenance of my friend — his
eyes half closed, and his limbs hanging listlessly.

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 3O3

— I was roused by half-a-dozen of the sailors,
who demanded admission into the cabin. They
entered, and their leader addressed me. He told
me that he and his companions had been chosen
by the other sailors to come in deputation to me,
to make me a requisition, which, in justice, I could
not refuse. We were immured in ice, and should
probably never escape ; but they feared that if, as
was possible, the ice should dissipate, and a free
passage be opened, I should be rash enough to
continue my voyage, and lead them into fresh
dangers, after they might happily have surmounted
this. They insisted, therefore, that I should en-
gage with a solemn promise, that if the vessel
should be freed I would instantly direct my course
southward.

This speech troubled me. I had not despaired ;
nor had I yet conceived the idea of returning, if
set free. Yet could I, in justice, or even in possi-
bility, refuse this demand? I hesitated before I
answered; when Frankenstein, who had at first
been silent, and, indeed, appeared hardly to have
force enough to attend, now roused himself ; his
eyes sparkled, and his cheeks flushed with mo-
mentary vigour. Turning towards the men, he
said — ''What do you mean? What do you de-
mand of your captain? Are you then so easily
turned from your design ? Did you not call this
a glorious expedition? And wherefore was it
glorious ? Not because the way was smooth and

304 FRANKENSTEIN; OR,

pladd as a southern sea, but because it was full of
dangers and terror: because, at every new inci-
dent, your fortitude was to be called forth, and
your courage exhibited ; because danger and death
surrounded it, and these you were to brave and
overcome. For this was it a glorious, for this was
it an honourable undertaking. You were hereafter
to be hailed as the benefactors of your species ;
your names adored, as belonging to brave men
who encountered death for honour, and the bene-
fit of mankind. And now, behold, with the first
imagination of danger, or, if you will, the first
mighty and terrific trial of your courage, you
shrink away, and are content to be handed down
as men who had not strength enough to endure
cold and peril ; and so, poor souls, they were
chilly, and returned to their warm firesides.
Why, that requires not this preparation ; ye need
not have come thus far, and dragged your captain
to the shame of a defeat, merely to prove your-
selves cowards. Oh ! be men, or be more than
men. Be steady to your purposes, and firm as a
rock. This ice is not made of such stuff as your
hearts may be ;. it is mutable, and cannot with-
stand you, if you say that it shall not. Do not
return to your families with the stigma of disgrace
marked on your brows. Return, as heroes who
have fought and conquered, and who know not
what it is to turn their backs on the foe."
He spoke this with a voice so modulated to the

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 305

different feelings expressed in his speech, with an
eye so full of lofty design and heroism, that can
you wonder that these men were moved ? They
looked at one another, and were unable to reply.
I spoke; I told them to retire, and consider of
what had been said : that I would not lead them
farther north, if they strenuously desired the con-
trary : but that I hoped that, with reflection, their
courage would return.

They retired, and I turned towards my friend ;
but he was sunk in languor, and almost deprived
of life.

How all this will terminate, I know not ; but I
had rather die than return shamefully, — my pur-
pose unfulfilled. Yet I fear such will be my fate ;
the men, unsupported by ideas of glory and
honour, can never willingly continue to endure
their present hardships.

September 7.

The die is cast ; I have consented to return, if we
are not destroyed. Thus are my hopes blasted by
cowardice and indecision; I come back ignorant
and disappointed. It requires more philosophy
than I possess, to bear this injustice with patience.

September 12.

It is past ; I am returning to England. I have
lost my hopes of utility and glory ; — I have lost
my friend. But I will endeavour to detail these

306 FRANKENSTEIN; OR,

bitter circumstances to you, my dear sister; and,
while I am wafted towards England, and towards
you, I will not despond.

September 9th, the ice began to move, and
roarings like thunder were heard at a distance, as
the islands split and cracked in every direction.
We were in the most imminent peril ; but, as we
could only remain passive, my chief attention was
occupied by my unfortunate guest, whose illness
increased in such a degree, that he was entirely
confined to his bed. The ice cracked behind us,
and was driven with force towards the north ; a
breeze sprang from the west, and on the nth the
passage towards the south became perfectly free.
When the sailors saw this, and that their return
to their native country w^as apparently assured, a
shout of tumultuous joy broke from them, loud
and long-continued. Frankenstein, who was
dozing, awoke, and asked the cause of the tumult.
"They shout," I said, "because they will soon
return to England."

** Do you then really return?"

" Alas ! yes ; I cannot withstand their demands.
I cannot lead them unwillingly to danger, and I
must return."

"Do so, if you will ; but I will not. You may
give up your purpose, but mine is assigned to me
by Heaven, and I dare not. I am weak; but
surely the spirits who assist my vengeance will
endow me with sufficient strength." Saying tliis,

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 307

he endeavoured to spring from the bed, but the
exertion was too great for him ; he fell back, and
fainted.

It was long before he was restored ; and I often
thought that Hfe was entirely extinct. At length
he opened his eyes ; he breathed with difficulty,
and was unable to speak. The surgeon gave him
a composing draught, and ordered us to leave him
undisturbed. In the meantime he told me, that
my friend had certainly not many hours to live.

His sentence was pronounced ; and I could only
grieve and be patient. I sat by his bed, watching
him ; his eyes were closed, and I thought he
slept ; but presently he called to me in a feeble
voice, and bidding me come near, said — " Alas I
the strength I relied on is gone ; I feel that I
shall soon die, and he, my enemy and persecutor,
may still be in being. Think not, Walton, that
in the last moments of my existence I feel that
burning hatred, and ardent desire of revenge, I
once expressed; but I feel myself justified in
desiring the death of my adversary. During these
last days I have been occupied in examining my
past conduct ; nor do I find it blamable. In a fit
of enthusiastic madness I created a rational crea-
ture, and was bound towards him, to assure, as far
as was in my power, his happiness and well-
being. This was my duty; but there was
another still paramount to that. My duties
towards the beings of my own species had greater

308 FRAXKENSTEIM ; OR,

claims to my attention, because they included a
greater proportion of happiness or misery. Urged
by this view, I refused, and I did right in refusing,
to create a companion for the first creature. He
showed unparalleled malignity and selfishness in
evil : he destroyed my friends ; he devoted to
destruction beings who possessed exquisite sen-
sations, happiness, and wisdom ; nor do I know
where this thirst for vengeance may end. Miser-
able himself, that he may render no other wretched,
he ought to die. The task of his destruction
was mine, but I have failed. When actuated by
selfish and vicious motives, I asked you to under-
take my unfinished work ; and I renew this re-
quest now, when I am only induced by reason
and virtue.

"Yet I cannot ask you to renounce your
country and friends to fulfil this task, and now
that you are remming to England, you will have
little chance of meeting with him. But the con-
sideration of these points, and the well balancing
of what you may esteem your duties, I leave to
you ; my judgment and ideas are already disturbed
by the near approach of death. I dare not ask
you to do what I think right, for I may still be
misled by passion.

**That he should live to be an instrument of
mischief disturbs me ; in other respects, this hour,
when I momentarily expect my release, is the
only happy one which I have enjoyed for several

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 309

years. The forms of the beloved dead flit before
me, and I hasten to their arms. Farewell^
Walton ! Seek happiness in tranquillity, and
avoid ambition, even if it be only the apparently
innocent one of distinguishing yourself in science
and discoveries. Yet why do I say this ? I have
myself been blasted in these hopes, yet another
may succeed."

His voice became fainter as he spoke; and at
length, exhausted by his effort, he sunk into
silence. About half- an -hour afterwards he
attempted again to speak, but was unable ; he
pressed my hand feebly, and his eyes closed for
ever, while the irradiation of a gentle smile passed
away from his lips.

Margaret, what comment can I make on the
untimely extinction of this glorious spirit ? What
can I say, that will enable you to understand the
depth of my sorrow ? All that I should express
would be inadequate and feeble. My tears flow ;
my mind is overshadowed by a cloud of disappoint-
ment. But I journey towards England, and I may
there find consolation.

I am interrupted. What do these sounds por-
tend? It is midnight; the breeze blows fairly,
and the watch on deck scarcely stir. Again;
there is a sound as of a human voice, but hoarser ;
it comes from the cabin where the remains of
Frankenstein still lie. I must arise, and examine.
Good night, my sister.

310 FRANKENSTEIN; OR,

Great God ! what a scene has just taken place !
I am yet dizzy with the remembrance of it. I
hardly know whether I shall have the power to
detail it ; yet the tale which I have recorded would
be incomplete without this final and wonderful
-catastrophe.

I entered the cabin, where lay the remains of
my ill-fated and admirable friend. Over him hung
a form which I cannot find words to describe;
gigantic in stature, yet uncouth and distorted in
its proportions. As he hung over the coffin, his
face was concealed by long locks of ragged hair ;
but one vast hand was extended, in colour and
apparent texture like that of a mummy. When
he heard the sound of my approach, he ceased to
utter exclamations of grief and horror, and sprung
towards the window. Never did I behold a vision
so horrible as his face, of such loathsome, yet
appalling hideousness. I shut my eyes involun-
tarily, and endeavoured to recollect what were my
duties with regard to this destroyer. I called on
him to stay.

He paused, looking on me with wonder ; and,
^gain turning towards the lifeless form of his
creator, he seemed to forget my presence, and
-every feature and gesture seemed instigated by
the wildest rage of some uncontrollable passion.

" That is also my victim I " he exclaimed : " in
his murder my crimes are consummated ; the
miserable series of my being is wound to its

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 3II

close ! Oh, Frankenstein I generous and self-
devoted being! what does it avail that I now
ask thee to pardon me? I, who irretrievably
destroyed thee by destroying all thou lovedst.
Alas ! he is cold, he cannot answer me."

His voice seemed suffocated ; and my first im-
pulses, which had suggested to me the duty of
obeying the dying request of my friend, in destroy-
ing his enemy, were now suspended by a mixture
of curiosity and compassion. I approached this
tremendous being ; I dared not again raise my
eyes to his face, there was something so scaring
and unearthly in his ugliness. I attempted to
speak, but the words died away on my lips. The
monster continued to utter wild and incoherent
self-reproaches. At length I gathered resolution
to address him in a pause of the tempest of his
passion: **Your repentance," I said, **is now
superfluous. If you had listened to the voice of
conscience, and heeded the stings of remorse,
before you had urged your diabolical vengeance
to this extremity, Frankenstein would yet have
Kved."

"And do you dream," said the daemon, "do
you think that I was then dead to agony and
remorse? — ^He," he continued, pointing to the
corpse, "he suffered not in the consummation of
the deed — oh ! not the ten-thousandth portion of
the anguish that was mine during the lingering
detail of its execution. A frightful selfishness

312 FRANKENSTEIN; OR,

hurried me on, while my heart was poisoned with
remorse. Think you that the groans of Clerval
were music to my ears ? My heart was fashioned
to be susceptible of love and sympathy; and,
when wrenched by misery to vice and hatred, it
did not endure the violence of the change, without
torture such as you cannot even imagine.

"After the murder of Clerval, I returned to
Switzerland, heart-broken and overcome. I pitied
Frankenstein; my pity amounted to horror: I
abhorred myself. But when I discovered that
he, the author at once of my existence and of its
unspeakable torments, dared to hope for happi-
ness; that while he accumulated wretchedness
and despair upon me, he sought his own enjoy-
ment in feelings and passions from the indulgence
of which I was for ever barred, then impotent
envy and bitter indignation filled me with an
insatiable thirst for vengeance. I recollected my
threat, and resolved that it should be accom-
plished. I knew that I was preparing for myself
a deadly torture; but I was the slave, not the
master, of an impulse which I detested, yet could
not disobey. Yet when she died I — nay, then I
was not miserable. I had cast off all feeling,
subdued all anguish, to riot in the excess of
my despair. Evil thenceforth became my good.
Urged thus far, I had no choice but to adapt
my nature to an element which I had willingly
chosen. The completion of my demoniacal de-

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 313

sign became an insatiable passion. And now it
is ended ; there is my last victim ! "

I was at first touched by the expressions of his
misery ; yet, when I called to mind what Franken-
stein had said of his powers of eloquence and
persuasion, and when I again cast my eyes on the
lifeless form of my friend, indignation was re-
kindled within me. ** Wretch 1" I said, "it is
well that you come here to whine over the desola-
tion that you have made. You throw a torch
into a pile of buildings ; and, when they are con-
sumed, you sit among the ruins, and lament the
fall. Hypocritical fiend ! if he whom you mourn
still lived, still would he be the object, again would
he become the prey, of your accursed vengeance.
It is not pity that you feel; you lament only
because the victim of your malignity is withdrawn
from your power,"

** Oh, it is not thus — not thus," interrupted the
being; **yet such must be the impression con-
veyed to you by what appears to be the purport
of my actions. Yet I seek not a fellow-feeling
in my misery. No sympathy may I ever find.
When I first sought it, it was the love of virtue,
the feelings of happiness and affection with which
my whole being overflowed, that I wished to be
participated. But now that virtue has become to
me a shadow, and that happiness and affection
are turned into bitter and loathing despair, in
what should I seek for sympathy ? I am content

314 FRANKENSTEIN; OR,

to suffer alone, while my sufferings shall endure :
when I die, I am well satisfied that abhorrence
and opprobrium should load my memory. Once
my fancy was soothed with dreams of virtue, of
fame, and of enjoyment. Once I falsely hoped to
meet with beings, who, pardoning my outward
form, would love me for the excellent qualities
which I was capable of unfolding. I was nourished
with high thoughts of honour and devotion. But
now crime has degraded me beneath the meartest
animal. No guilt, no mischief, no malignity, no
misery, can be found comparable to mine. When
I run over the frightful catalogue of my sins, I
cannot believe that I am the same creature whose
thoughts were once filled with sublime and transr
cendent visions of the beauty and the majesty of
goodness. But it is even so; the fallen angel
becomes a malignant devil. Yet even that enemy
of God and man had friends and associates in his
desolation ; I am alone.

*' You, who call Frankenstein your frieiid, seem
to have a knowledge of my crimes and his mis-
fortunes. But in the detail which he gave you of
them, he could not sum up the hours and months
of misery which 1 endured, wasting in impotent
passions, For while I destroyed his hopes, I did
not satisfy my own desires. They were for ever
ardent and craving ; stilll desired love and fellow-
ship, and I was still spurned. Was there no
injustice in this? Am i to be thought the only

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 315

criminal, when all human kind sinned against me ?
Why do you not hate Felix, who drove his friend
from his door with contumely ? Why do you not
execrate the rustic who sought to destroy the
saviour of his child ? Nay, these are virtuous and
inmiaculate beings I I, the miserable and the
abandoned, am an abortion, to be spurned at, and
kicked, and trampled on. Even now my Wood
boils at the recollection of this injustice.

"But it is true that I am a wretch. I have
murdered the lovely and the helpless; I have
strangled the innocent as they slept, and grasped
to death his throat who never injured me or any
other living thing. I have devoted my creator,
the select specimen of all that is worthy of love
and admiration among men, to misery; I have
pursued him even to that irremediable ruin. There
he lies, white and cold in death. You hate me ;
but your abhorrence cannot equal that with which
I regard myself. I look on the hands which
executed the deed ; I think on the heart in which
the imagination of it was conceived, and long for
the moment when these hands will meet my eyes,
when that imagination will haunt my thoughts
no more.

**Fear not that I shall be the instrument of
future mischief. My work is nearly complete.
Neither yours nor any man's death is needed to
consummate the series of my being, and accomplish
that which must be done ; but it requires my own.

3l6 FRANKENSTEIN; OR,

Do not think that I shall be slow to perform this
sacrifice. I shall quit your vessel on the ice-raft
which brought me thither, and shall seek the
most northern extremity of the globe; I shall
collect my funeral pile, and consume to ashes this
miserable frame, that its remains may aflford no
light to any curious and unhallowed wretch, who
would create such another as I have been. I shall
die. I shall no longer feel the agonies which now
consume me, or be the prey of feelings unsatisfied,
yet unquenched. He is dead who called me into
being; and when I shall be no more, the very
remembrance of us both will speedily vanish. I
shall no longer see the sun or stars, or feel the
winds play on my cheeks. Light, feeling, and
sense will pass away ; and in this condition must
I find my happiness. Some years ago, y^hen the
images which this world affords first opened upon
me, when I felt the cheering warmth of summer,
and heard the rustling of the leaves and the war-
bling of the birds, and these were all to me, I
should have wept to die ; now it is my only con-
solation. Polluted by crimes, and torn by the
bitterest remorse, where can I find rest but in
death ?

** Farewell! I leave you, and in you the last of
human kind whom these eyes wiU ever behold.
Farewell, Frankenstein I If thou wert yet alive,
and yet cherished a desire of revenge against me,
it would be better satiated in my life than in my

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS, 317

destruction. But it was not so ; thou didst seek
my extinction, that I might not cause greater
wretchedness ; and if yet, in some mode unknown
to me, thou hadst not ceased to think and feel,
thou wouldst not desire against me a vengeance
greater than that which I feel. Blasted as thou
wert, my agony was still superior to thine; for
the bitter sting of remorse will not cease to
rankle in my wounds until death shall close them
for ever.

*'But soon," he cried, with sad and solemn
enthusiasm, " I shall die, and what I now feel be
no longer felt. Soon these burning miseries will
be extinct. I shall ascend my funeral pile trium-
phantly, and exult in the agony of the torturing
flames. The light of that conflagration will fade
away ; my ashes will be swept into the sea by the
winds. My spirit will sleep in peace; or if it
thinks, it will not surely think thus. Farewell."

He sprung from the cabin window, as he said
this, upon the ice-raft which lay close to the
vessel. He was soon borne away by the waves,
and lost in darkness and distance.

THE END.

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